


The Cold Fusion Job

by la_rubinita



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action Violence, Cas is a nice thing, Dean's A+ Self Worth, Destiel - Freeform, Jo is a fucking badass, Kidnapping, M/M, Scientist!Castiel, Thief!Dean, dean deserves nice things, heist job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_rubinita/pseuds/la_rubinita
Summary: Castiel Milton is a brilliant electro-chemist at the peak of his career.  He’s developed the ultimate energy source, the science behind it promising to revolutionize the world energy market and combat climate change in a way few could have ever dreamed.  He’s proud of his work, but he’s grown restless and is more lonely than he realized.  He’s ready for a change.Dean is a thief and mercenary by trade, on a mission of absolution with his rag-tag family.  But when the nastiest skeleton in Dean’s closet rears its ugly head, Dean is put between a rock and a hard place: steal Castiel’s research or Sam dies.It’s all downhill from there.  Dean is not the only thief after Castiel’s work, and no one is pulling any punches.  Castiel ends up along for the ride, stepping up time and time again, as determined to save Sam as he is to protect his life’s work.Dean doesn’t know what to do with Castiel and his too-blue eyes that see more than they should, or the growing affection he has for him that, like everything else about this wild night, is completely out of control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following is the product of an unhealthy obsession with Destiel and a _Leverage_ marathon, with some pretty solid nods at _The Saint_.
> 
> This project has been such a blessing. Not only was it a total blast to write, but I've made some of the most amazing friends along the way. fanforfanatic, YOU ARE AT THE TOP OF THAT LIST. You're a great beta and an even better human and I love you. Shout-outs to destimushi, halzbarry, casloveshisfreckles, igotout, and Areiton, for being so supportive and generally awesome.
> 
> A BILLION THANKS TO throughxthexice for the absolutely _incredible_ artwork, which you can find [HERE.](http://throughxthexice.tumblr.com/post/166046965286/)
> 
> I hope all y'all have half as much fun reading this as I did writing it!

As far as surveillance gigs went, this one wasn’t so bad.  The café was a little trendy for Dean’s tastes, but it beat the hell out of sitting in a car, or on a rooftop, or in the damned bushes.  And trendy or not, the coffee was definitely on point. All things considered, Dean couldn’t complain.

The blue-eyed man with the sex hair who came in every morning for his latte-one-pump-caramel was a definite bonus.  He was a striking combination of handsome and awkward, with his crooked tie, too-big trench coat, and abysmal people skills.  Every morning Dean would smile at him, and every morning he would blush a little and crinkle his brow, perpetually confused by Dean’s attention, then hurry to order.  Every morning he would surreptitiously watch Dean from the other end of the  counter while he waited for his drink. Today had been especially rewarding.  Dean had dropped the sexy stranger a sly wink as he left, and he’d nearly crashed into the door.

He would be a liar if he said he didn’t look forward to the interaction every day.  Not only was it fun, but if he ever did decide to ask the guy out for drinks he’d have some pretty decent groundwork already laid.

Dean sipped his coffee, taking in the view through the cafe window.  He had been all over the world, but he had to admit there was something special about Washington D.C. in spring.  The air was crisp, the sky pale and bright, and the breeze off the Potomac brought with it a dusting of cherry blossoms. They were everywhere, little pink petals dusting the pavement like a lightly scented snowfall. Lovely, really. Picturesque, even. If Dean had one single artistic bone in his body, he’d be all over that shit.

_ “Achoo!” _

They made Sam sneeze like hell.

Dean hid his laugh in his coffee cup even as he winced, Sam’s sneeze cracking over the comm unit wedged in his ear.

_ “Jerk,” _ Sam hissed. “ _ Shut up so I can concentrate.” _

“Bitch.”

“ _ All right, girls, that’s enough,” _ Bobby said, his whiskey-rough voice sandpaper in Dean’s ear. 

_ “I resent that.”  _ Charlie. “ _ I am a consummate professional.” _

_ “You talk to a Hermione Granger bobble head for moral support,”  _ Jo drawled. “ _ Hey, when we’re done here can we—“ _

_ “Jo,”  _ Bobby interrupted, sighing,  _ “we are not stealing the Hope Diamond.” _

_ “But it’s so pretty.” _

_ “Seriously, guys…”  _ Sam said, trailing off.

“I’ve got eyes on ya, Sammy,” Dean said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, gaze fixed on the broad shoulders of his younger brother as he entered the hotel across the street. All shenanigans aside, Dean  _ was  _ a consummate professional. Sure, he liked blowing off steam as much as the next guy, but they’d spent the better part of three weeks setting up this job.  He wasn’t going to be the one to screw it up.

Just a couple more days, and they would be on their way, leaving their clients considerably richer.  And, if all went according to  plan , the scum bag would end up in jail, too.

Dean listened intently as Sam went through the motions with the concierge, and then the mark, a twenty-five year old trust fund baby who thought Sam was getting him in on the ground floor of some Silicon Valley venture.  

Alexander Turpin had also raped three women.  That they knew of.  Once Bobby had concocted the  plan , Charlie had whipped up most of the details in an afternoon, but all that techie stuff was a little over Dean’s head. Which never seemed to keep Charlie from trying to explain it to him.

_ “He’s on the phone with the bank manager, _ ” Sam whispered.

“ _ This job is boring,” _ Jo groused. “ _ I mean, we’re not even stealing anything. He’s  _ giving _ it to us.” _

_ “That’s the general idea,”  _ Bobby said. 

Jo was undeterred. “ _ I’ve got this housekeeper’s keycard, but y’all won’t let me use it. This  _ _ uniform _ _ is really itchy in really weird places—“ _

_ “Ew, tmi,”  _ Charlie said _. _

_ “—and the hotel’s safe hasn’t been updated since 1989. It’s a relic. It’ll take me less than—” _

“Jo, if you shut up right now, I promise I’ll take you to Union  Station when we’re done and you can pick pockets to your heart’s content.”

_ “Alright, sounds great, Alex. I’ll be in touch in forty-eight hours,” _ Sam said, silencing the rest of the team.

“Good job, Sammy. Not bad for a morning’s work.” Dean never tired of watching (or listening to) Sam work his magic. People trusted him, and with the dimples and the big puppy dog eyes it was little wonder. Sam was a natural; always had been.  Used to drive their dad nuts.

_ “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A lot can happen in two days.” _

_ “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Bobby,”  _ Charlie said.

“ _ I’m on my way out.” _

“ _ Okie dokie,” _ said Jo. “ _ I’ll meet you at the metro  _ _ station _ _ , Sam.” _

Sam huffed, sounding pissy.  _ “Charlie, are you screwing with the elevators again?” _

“ _ I don’t know what you’re talking about _ .”

She didn’t sound like she was being coy.

“ _Seriously,_ _not funny_.” There was an edge in Sam’s voice now, something that skirted the line between concerned and annoyed.

“What’s going on, Sam?” Dean said, his spidey senses tingling. He was up and moving toward the door before he even realized it.

_ “The elevator is taking me to the garage.” _

“Charlie—“

“ _ It’s not me.” _

_ “Jo,” _ Bobby said, “ _ get to the garage, asap.” _

_ “One quick way down, coming up.” _

_ “Guys, someone’s got the elevator’s camera looped, and I’m locked out. I’m working on getting around it, but I do not have eyes on Sam.” _

Chest tight with apprehension, Dean ran across the four-lane road, barely avoiding a collision with a Prius. Garage access was at the rear of the building, and there were three levels. Sam could be on any one of them.

“ _ Dean—?“ _ Bobby said.

“Where are you, Sam? I’m coming to you.”

“ _ Uh, looks like I’m stopping at G2.” _

Over the comm, Dean heard the elevator door chime as it opened.

“ _ What the—?”  _ Sam’s sentence ended with a grunt and a hiss of pain followed by the most horrible silence Dean had ever endured.

“Sammy!” Dean shouted. “Talk to me, Sam!”

“ _ Charlie, we need eyes now,”  _ Bobby snapped. “ _ Jo, where are you?” _

Jo grunted with effort.  _ “Exiting the elevator shaft now. But I’m on the wrong side of the building. Three minutes, plus or minus.” _

_ “Make it minus.” _

_ “Dean.” _

Dean skidded to a stunned halt, his mind struggling sluggishly with disbelief. He’d know that smug, irritating voice anywhere, but he never thought he’d hear it again. It was coming over Sam’s comm, which could only mean one thing…

“Crowley. If you hurt my brother, I will personally remove your lungs from your chest. With a spoon.”

“ _ Now, now, is that anyway to greet an old friend?” _

“We were never friends, douche bag. Where’s Sam?”

Dean started moving again, cursing himself. He’d wasted too much time already.

“ _ Don’t worry, he’s fine. For now. Although, I don’t envy him the headache he’ll have.” _

“I swear to God—“

“ _ As lovely as this little exchange of pleasantries has been, well… Let’s just say we’ll be seeing each other soon enough.  Ta.” _

There was a burst of feedback, and a crackle of static.  

“ _ I’ve lost signal on Sam’s comm,” _ Charlie said.

Dean sprinted up the ramps, spurred on by the squeal of tires ahead. “Jo?”

“ _ Black Suburban, headed your way. First three digits Juliette-umbrella-victor. They’ve got Sam—“ _

Dean stopped, drew his gun, and waited. 

The Suburban was the latest model, enormous and aggressive.  The glass was blacked out, making it difficult to see the driver, but it was enough. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Dean squeezed the trigger, putting four rounds in a neat cluster right in the driver’s face, but—

Bulletproof glass.

The driver was a pro; his reaction to the gunshots was to punch the gas and take aim.  Dean threw himself out of the way, hitting the concrete in a practiced roll. He came to a stop on his back, pistol aimed down the length of the garage, but the SUV was already around the corner and out of sight. 

As he clambered to his feet, a silver Nissan 370z screeched to a halt next to him, passenger window rolled down.

“Get in!” Jo called.

Dean wasn’t going to waste time asking where she got the car. They lurched forward with a squeal of rubber before Dean had shut the door.

“You might want to buckle in.” With a steely, manic grin, Jo dropped the transmission down a gear, popped the handbrake as she punched the gas, and drifted around the corner.  

Dean buckled in.

@@@

The pursuit was brief, frustrating, and fruitless.

“Please tell me you got something,” Dean barked as he burst into the suite. It was a modern set-up, with lots of white and geometric shit all over the place. A little on the swanky side, but at least the toilets weren’t made of gold or anything.

Charlie, ensconced behind an impressive array of computer equipment, spoke in a rush.  “I’ve got a program scanning incoming traffic cam data, I’ve got a DMV search for all  black Suburbans made this century with the first three digits JUV in  Maryland, Virginia, and D .C., and I’ve been trying to get Sam’s phone to ping, but it’s looking like they’ve taken out the SIM card.”

Helplessness washed over him, fast, hard, and merciless. “So, nothing,” Dean snapped, his voice rising. “Great. That limey bastard’s got Sam and—”

“She’s not the only one’s been blindsided by this, son. Don’t take it out on her.” Bobby emerged from the kitchenette, coffee mug in hand.  If it had actual coffee in it, Dean would eat his boot. He was wildly out of place with his faded jeans and trucker hat. “Why don’t you tell us about Crowley?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Come on, we all know who Crowley is. He’s the King of the Black Market. If there’s a pie somewhere in the world, he’s got a finger in it.”

“Doesn’t explain why he called you ‘friend,’” Bobby said.

“Or why he kidnapped Sam out of a parking garage,”Jo said.

Dean’s jaw clenched like his body was physically trying to keep the words in.  Like if he didn’t say them, they wouldn’t be true. Wouldn’t  _ hurt _ .  But it wasn’t something he could cure with a couple of aspirin or a bottle of Jack, and heaven knew he’d been pretty fucking far down that particular road. He had worked hard to move on from those dark times, but it was all futile.  Crowley had Sam, and it was on Dean, plain and simple.

“We worked together for a while, after my last tour was over.”  Dean took a deep breath. “I was on my own, and I was, well, I was bored, and angry. The first few jobs were brokered through a middle man, so I didn’t even know who I was working for. I guess he liked my style.”

“What did you do for him?” asked Jo. She stood beside him, close enough to touch, but Dean couldn’t even look at her.

“Please don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?” Charlie whispered, eyes roughly the size of dinner plates.

“Because we promised we’d never lie to each other.”

The silence that fell over them was  complete , and it made Dean’s skin crawl. He knew all three of them were busy imagining the worst possible thing he could have done. They probably wouldn’t be too far off.

“Well, it’s good news he took Sam,” said Bobby, taking a pull from his mug.

He gave the whole room permission to move again. Dean breathed.

“How d’ya figure?” Jo said.  She scowled and pulled at the maid’s  uniform like a kid pulls at his church clothes.

Bobby shrugged. “Crowley got the drop on  Sam, fair and square , but he didn’t kill him.  Means he wants something.  He’ll be in touch.”

“Awesome,” Dean said. “That makes me feel so much better.”

@@@

They didn’t have to wait long.  

Charlie had Dean’s phone hooked up to one of her laptops, ready to start tracing any  attempt made to contact them. Her fingers danced relentlessly over the keyboard, gaze shifting between monitors, brows drawn together in a pinched frown. Dean had never seen her this focused, and that included the three days she spent glued to her computer after the last Moondor update.

Jo had her arsenal spread across the living room floor. (Well, part of it, at least. Bobby didn’t let her travel with the assault  rifles, shotguns, or the archery collection .)  A pair of Glock 27s, a brace of throwing knives, a seven-inch hunting knife, and a taser were laid out on a towel before her, each receiving the love and attention a set of dolls might have gotten from a girl who  _ hadn’t _ been raised by a bunch of carnies. Dean met Jo’s mother once. Ellen was an incongruous combination of warm and inviting and utterly terrifying. Jo was a lot like her mother. Not so much warm and inviting, but she had the terrifying part  _ down _ . She wasn’t always so great with people, but she was clever and loyal and the best damn thief Dean had ever met.

Bobby stood at the picture window with his back to the room. They were high enough up that you could see the Capitol in the distance, but Bobby wasn’t taking in the view.  He was already running scenarios, trying to predict the unpredictable. He was good at it, the best maybe, but he didn’t know Crowley. Not like Dean did.

Dean paced. It sucked being stuck in that bleached room  _ waiting  _ when he should be out there  _ doing. _ He didn’t know what exactly he’d be doing, but that was hardly the point.

“Dean?” Jo said. She never looked up from the throwing knife she was sharpening.

“What?”

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to have to stab you.”

Jo could hit a moving target at fifty feet with one of those daggers. Blindfolded.  Dean stopped pacing.

Charlie’s computer made a series of happy  _ chirps  _ and  _ bloops. _

“Sam’s phone is online!” she said, bouncing in her seat.  

Dean’s heart leapt into his throat. He rushed around the bank of computers to stand behind Charlie. “Is it nearby?” 

“It’s pinging off a tower in… Jakarta?  Bogota.  Moscow.”  She shook her head and typed faster. “Merlin’s beard, who is this guy’s hacker? I don’t know if I want to punch them in the face or buy them a drink. “

“What’s happening?” Dean snapped.

“He’s spoofing the signal, bouncing it all over the globe. He could be in the room next to us, but until I backtrace all this we wouldn’t know it.”

“Son of a bitch.”

The phone rang. Dean lunged for it, putting the call on speaker.

“I want proof of life before I do anything for you,” Dean greeted.

“ _ Trust me, Dean, a dead moose is no good to me. He truly is enormous, isn’t he? I almost broke a sweat watching my men load him into the car.” _

“Trust you?”

“ _ You’re taking this personally,” _ Crowley said, his English accent grating on Dean’s last nerve. _  “It’s just business.” _

“You kidnapped my brother! How am I not supposed to take it personally?”

“ _ I needed leverage.” _

Dean ground his teeth and clenched his hands into fists so tight his fingernails dug into his palms. “Because you knew I wouldn’t work with you otherwise.”

_ “Give him a gold star.” _

“There are plenty of crews you could have, I don’t know,  _ hired _ .”

“ _ Despite his utter lack of fashion sense and frankly bizarre moral compass, it is no secret, in any corner of the world, that Robert Singer’s team is top notch. Why spend time putting together a crew of my own, when I’ve got a well-oiled machine at my disposal? And we are on a bit of schedule.” _

“We.”

“ _ Yes, we. And the sooner you accept that and move on, the sooner you’ll be rid of me. Now, I’m emailing your lovely Miss Bradbury the  _ _ complete _ _ dossier on Dr. Milton and his research.  Word on the street is he’s cagey, difficult, so bring your  _ _ A-game _ _.” _

“You realize you’ve got our grifter, right?”

“ _ Something tells me you’ll make do. Oh, and you’ve got until the end of the week, or your brother dies.  Sorry, not sorry.  I’ll be in touch.” _

 

@@@

Dean had tunnel vision. He felt hot and cold by turns, fluctuating between a fiery, seething rage and the frigid lump of guilt.  It took all his self control to keep his breathing steady. He had one job.  _ One fucking job. _ Make sure everyone got back. Especially Sam.

While he’d been thinking about cherry blossoms and blue eyes, Crowley had gotten the drop on Sam and now they were both in the wind and it was  _ all Dean’s fault. _

“Give him a minute,” he heard Bobby say as he slammed the door behind him.

It didn’t make him feel better.

The whiskey was on the dresser, right where he’d left it, and before Dean could talk himself out of it he’d poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid.  The scent of it was tantalizing, warm, spicy caramel with the sharp tang of alcohol.  An invitation to oblivion.

But it wouldn’t make him feel better, either.  No matter how much he wanted it.

Dean took a deliberate step away from the drink and stared at himself in the mirror. Like his reflection would know anything. He wanted to scream. Or break shit.  _ Scream and break shit. _

How did Crowley even find him?  The last time Dean had seen him was through the scope of his sniper rifle from a thousand yards across the crenelated skyline of Tangier. Dean had held up the ends of all his bargains; he and Crowley had been square when Dean ended their…  arrangement . They’d parted ways for good that day, and as far as Dean had been able to keep tabs through the grapevine, Crowley had kept to the other side of the Atlantic.  Whatever the endgame was, Dean had to give Crowley props.  Let it never be said he didn’t know how to get a guy’s attention.

For the first time, Dean regretted not taking that shot. His stomach churned with it.

Dean was still considering the cup, when there was a soft knock on the door. Charlie didn’t wait for permission. She took in the room, no doubt comparing it to hers. It was pretty generic, despite being part of a suite. Bed, dresser, mirror, desk. More white and strangely shaped decorations. An  _ avant garde _ print in reds and yellows hung above the bed. Decent view. God knew he’d stayed in worse. They all had.

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

Charlie smiled, sheepishly tucking an auburn curl behind her ear.  Her other arm clutched a tablet to her chest. “Apparently, I have a tell.”

Dean huffed a laugh.  “You do.”

“Dean—”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“You were gonna tell me that this isn’t my fault, and I shouldn’t beat myself up blah, blah, blah. Just… just spare me, all right?”

“Oh, no. By all means, go ahead.”

Dean glared at her.

“Who am I to get in the way of your self-flagellation?”

Dean glared a little harder.

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Charlie plonked down on the end of the bed. She was behind Dean, but the mirror above the chest of drawers allowed her to look him in the eye.

“You’re not the only one who blames themselves for this. I should have noticed I wasn’t the only one in the hotel’s system. Jo’s been running through all the ways she could have gotten to him faster. Like jumping down an elevator shaft wasn’t enough. Bobby’s beating himself up for not seeing this coming.”

“I left him alone,” Dean said, shaking his head.  “I should have been in there with him.”

“He wasn’t alone. Jo was there, and it was Sam’s idea to approach Alex Turpin solo.”

“I could have—”

“Insisted? When was the last time  _ that  _ worked?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “The third grade?”

Charlie smiled and handed him the tablet. “Turns out Dr. Milton is an electro-chemist, and, if Crowley’s intel is good, he’s successfully reproduced cold fusion.”

“The fuck is that?” Dean asked, tapping open the file.

“It’s like the urban legend of the scientific community. The last guys who claimed they did it faked it. It’s basically nuclear fusion at room temperature. Theoretically, it would solve all of the world’s energy problems. Coal, oil, natural gas — even solar and wind — they’d all become obsolete. We could retro-fit the Impala with a cold fusion reactor and you’d get 500 million miles on a gallon of heavy water. He’s going to announce his findings on Monday and open his experiments for peer  review which is probably why — are you listening?”

Dean  _ had _ been listening.  Until the blue, blue eyes of latte-one-pump-caramel,  complete  with the sex hair and the crooked tie distracted him. Because latte-one-pump-caramel was also known as Dr. Castiel Milton, 42, head research scientist at Sandover Industrial. He lived in the Adams Morgan neighborhood with his sister, Anna, 35, who was a teacher at Duke Ellington School of the Arts. They had a cat named Balthazar, and a brother, Gabriel, who lived in Los Angeles. He seemed like a normal guy, if not a little reclusive.

And Dean was going to have to steal his life’s work. Awesome.

@@@

There was a small Japanese garden, with benches and a gazebo and a little koi pond. The hotel had opened it again the first week of their stay, and Bobby could usually be found there in the evening. Dean knew he hated being cooped up with them when the jobs dragged out like this. They had all been working together for over three years now, but Bobby had been on his own since his wife died thirty years ago, and he was more accustomed to his privacy than he ever would be to Jo and Charlie’s incessant bickering.

Dean sat next to him on the bench overlooking the pond, dropping the dossier between them.  

“There are so many things wrong with this, it’s not even funny.” 

Bobby kept staring. “Yup.”

“I mean, are we okay with stealing the greatest scientific advancement of the century for  _ Crowley?”  _ Dean had taken the time to fully absorb the implications of Castiel Milton’s achievement. It was  a game changer, a  market shifter, and in the wrong hands it would be disastrous. “We both know he’s going to sell it to the highest bidder, and make a fortune off of something that every single person in the world should have access to.”

“Yup.”

“This is the exact opposite of what we do.”

“Yup.”

“There has to be a better way to get Sam back.”

“You think of it, you let me know. Until then, we’ll have to dance to Crowley’s tune.”

“You really don’t have a  plan ?”

“Dean,” Bobby said, scrubbing his grizzled beard.  There were dark rings beneath his eyes, reminding Dean that Bobby was no spring chicken.  “I’m on  Plan Q right now, and so far none of them have a happy ending.”

Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought, but he persisted.  “This isn’t right.”

Bobby snorted and finally looked at Dean.  “It’s been a long time since any of us were on the right side of anything. Even what we do, helping people… how we do it is still illegal.” 

“But this is  _ wrong.  _ Castiel Milton is a decent, normal guy who doesn’t deserve to have his life’s work ruined. He’s who we’re supposed to help.  Not the other way around. Especially not irritating douche nozzles who steal my little brother out of parking garages.”

“Sam’s gonna be fine, and whatever happens with this Dr. Milton, we’ll make it right.”

“We don’t know that Bobby,” Dean said through clenched teeth. “Crowley is nuts. Think Napoleon in Armani. There’s no guarantee even if we do manage to get our hands on this doohickey that he’ll give Sam back.  He’s more likely to kill us all.”

This earned Dean a sideways glance.

Dean clarified. “He knows what I’ll do to him if I ever get my hands on him. He’s not going to leave that to chance. He likes his skin where it is.”

Bobby grunted, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back on the wooden bench.

“We should focus on finding Sam, pulling him out ourselves. Let Dr. Milton keep his super battery, and let me rip Crowley’s head off with my bare hands.”

“I agree.”

“Huh?”

“I agree.  Every bone in this creaking old body wants to tell Crowley to stuff it, but he’s holdin’ all the cards, son. We need a bargaining chip. So, unless  _ you’ve _ got something on  _ him _ that I don’t know about, we’re gonna have to play along. For now.”

“You know if our places were switched, Sam would be telling you the exact same thing.  The last thing he’d want is for something this powerful to wind up in the hands of someone like Crowley.  He’d want to find another way to do this.  He’d want  _ us _ to find another way.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Only you wouldn’t be looking at him like he was cuckoo for cocoa puffs.”

Bobby looked at Dean like he was cuckoo for cocoa puffs. Or… like he was seeing him differently. “I figured you hung around for Sam,” he said after a long moment of silence.  “I didn’t realize you were so… convicted.”

Dean shrugged. “Guess y’all finally got me to drink the Kool-Aid.”

Bobby snorted.

“I’ve hurt a lot of people, Bobby. Some of them deserved it; some of them didn’t.  If someone up there is keeping tabs on some cosmic ledger… This job is bigger than us. It could change the whole world. It  _ will _ change the whole world. If we screw it up, I’ll never get back in the  black .”

“Let’s not screw it up then.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The Metro was packed.  It was standing room only, and the car Castiel wound up in full of hyperactive middle schoolers on a field trip to see the cherry blossoms.  Not for the first time, he envied Anna’s proximity to her work.  The Metro was convenient and inexpensive compared to the cost of owning an automobile in the city, but some days traveling like a tinned sardine made his skin crawl.  It was getting old.

Today was even worse.  Castiel was tired and stiff, having spent the night at his desk, and his cell phone had died, causing him to miss his morning run.  He’d woken up when he heard Anna get into the shower and rushed to get dressed, only to find that Balthazar, feeling spiteful about having his breakfast delayed, had urinated on his last clean suit.  Castiel had to wear something out of the hamper.  Not even a tumble in the dryer had taken all the wrinkles out.

His phone rang as he stepped onto the platform.  It was Anna.

_ “You left your briefcase on the kitchen counter.” _

Castiel glared at his empty left hand like it had betrayed him.  He sighed deeply.

_ “Do you need me to bring it to you?  I can call Naomi and tell her—” _

“That won’t be necessary.”

Anna would do it, too, but he had no intention of ruining both their mornings. 

_ “If you’re sure.” _  She paused, and Castiel could feel her hesitation over the line.   _ “Cas, are you… is everything okay?  You’ve been… distracted lately.  Well, more distracted than usual.” _

“I am fine,” he replied automatically.  “I have been focused on trying to get everything in order for Monday.” 

_ “Okay,” _ she said, sounding unconvinced.   _ “Well, I was thinking maybe we could take a little vacation?  Celebrate?  I’ve only got a few weeks of school left, and you’ve got like a year’s worth of vacation time saved up.  Maybe we could go visit Gabriel?” _

Castiel wasn’t so sure that was the best idea.  Gabriel was gregarious and irreverent and had absurd ways of showing familial affection, and Castiel was very much not on board with being harassed about the state of his love life.  Gabriel had never had a serious relationship in his life; Castiel was not interested in casual affairs.  Neither was qualified to offer advice to the other.

But Anna sounded so hopeful, he didn’t have the heart to shut her down.

“Can we talk about this next week?  After the announcement?”

Anna knew him too well.  “ _ You know you deserve this, right?  You’ve worked non-stop for years.  You’ve earned a break, Cas.” _

“Anna —”

_ “We don’t even have to go to L.A.  We can go anywhere you want.” _

“Next week.  Please.”

Anna let out a little huff.   _ “All right.  Next week.  But we are talking about this _ .”

“Thank you.”

_ “Oh, and the cleaners called after you left.  Your tux is ready.” _

Castiel stifled a groan.  He had almost managed to block from his mind the reason he needed a tuxedo in the first place.  “Thank you.  I will pick it up on my way home.”

_ “You’re sure you don’t want me to bring your briefcase?” _

“Yes, I’m sure.”

_ “All right.  Say hi to McBrawny for me.” _

Castiel hung up.  McBrawny.  The gorgeous, green-eyed man who’d been at Castiel’s cafe of choice every day for the last three weeks.  Anna had walked to work with him once during her spring break, and had borne witness to the man’s heart-stopping smile.  He was broad shouldered and muscular, and had coincidentally been wearing a bright red buffalo plaid shirt.  Anna had suggested he looked like the man on the Brawny paper towels logo.  Thus, McBrawny had been coined.  The moniker was juvenile and a little insulting, but it stuck.  

Castiel shoved d the conversation to the back of his mind, and considered catching a return train to retrieve his briefcase.  It did hold most of his notes, but with travel and wait times it would be an hour before he made it back.  He surprised himself by considering catching a return train and not coming back at all because, well, because.  It was an unfamiliar urge with an elusive source, but ever since he completed his cold fusion research the need for something different had been all-consuming.  Perhaps visiting Gabriel in Los Angeles wasn’t as bad of an idea as he’d thought.

In the end, he decided to get his morning latte and go to work without the briefcase.  It was because he needed to put the finishing touches on his final lab reports before they were published, and had nothing to do with getting his daily dose of the green-eyed man.  It was a silly infatuation made even more ridiculous by the fact that it just wouldn’t die.  Part of him wanted to learn everything about the other man, and part of him wanted to buy an espresso machine and never set foot in that cafe ever again.

Every step brought with it a sense of anticipation.  It was persistent and frustratingly uncontrollable. Even after three weeks, his desire to see the gorgeous stranger never waned.

Castiel saw McBrawny through the glass before he reached the door, and tugged irritably at his shirt and tie.  He never pulled of anything close to immaculate, but today was a lost cause.  McBrawny, on the other hand, looked incredible in a solid maroon oxford with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a gray t-shirt.  Like he’d stepped out of a magazine and into the real world.  

McBrawny was unrepentant with his flirtations (especially if that wink yesterday meant anything), but Castiel wasn’t suffering from any delusions.  He wouldn’t be the first person to think Castiel handsome enough to pursue, only to change their mind on closer inspection.  Castiel was… odd, and he knew it.  Was okay with it.  He loved his life, his job, his family.  He accepted a long time ago that romance was not in the cards for him.

Anna remained hopeful, but Castiel was resigned.  His last relationship had ended catastrophically, and he since considered himself married to his work.  That commitment paid off, too.  No more heartbreak, no more drama, and his breakthrough would revolutionize how the world got its energy.  In a few days, the entire scientific community would know about it.  The peer review process could be brutal, but Castiel was confident cold fusion would survive this time around.  In light of his accomplishments, it felt silly to look forward to the attentions of a complete stranger.

That didn’t seem to matter.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel shouldered the door open, and his gaze slipped automatically to McBrawny.  He looked tired and tense, but just as handsome.  He smiled when he saw Castiel, that same, effortless, devil-may-care grin that had probably had everyone he turned it on falling out of their clothes for years.

Castiel smiled back.  It wasn’t effortless.  Out of control butterflies surged to life in his stomach, and he nearly ran into a woman trying to leave, but the other man’s smile brightened and some of the tension eased from his shoulders.   

Something that felt suspiciously like hope fluttered in his chest, and he squashed it with an iron will.  Heat rising under his collar, Castiel tore his gaze away and hurried to order his morning latte.  

Ridiculous.

While he waited for his order, Castiel tried his level best to pretend McBrawny did not exist.  It wasn’t working, and he abandoned the idea altogether when he was joined by him at the counter, coffee cup in hand.

“Hey, Andy, can I get a top up?” he asked.

His voice was a sucker punch to the gut.  Mellow and a little rough around the edges, it washed over Castiel like a shot of bourbon, warm and heady.

“Sure thing,” the young barista said, shaking shaggy hair out of his bloodshot eyes.  It was probable that a significant portion of his earnings went toward the acquisition of cannabis, but he never once made Castiel’s order incorrectly, which was more than could be said for some of his co-workers.

McBrawny reached past Castiel for the sugar packets, and Castiel stopped thinking about Andy and his extracurricular activities.  He didn’t think about anything besides how he suddenly found himself chest to chest with the other man, close enough for Castiel to count the freckles splashed across his nose and breathe in the clean bite of soap on his skin.  When Castiel made the mistake of looking him in eye, even those thoughts stopped.  His entire world narrowed down to the golden flecks in his irises.  They were more stunning up close than he could have imagined. Magnetic, even.  Castiel couldn’t have moved away if he wanted to.

“Excuse me,” McBrawny said, his voice an octave lower and a little breathless.  His eyes dropped to Castiel’s lips.

Castiel blinked, heart pounding, and took a small step back.  “Of course.  My apologies.”

The man smiled, a small curl of his perfect, cupid’s bow lips, but no less charming.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Latte, one pump caramel!”

Just like that, the tension snapped and McBrawny was gone.  

Castiel stared at his drink and breathed deeply. How much of what happened was in his head?  Most of it, he decided.  He left hurriedly, wondering why he put himself through this torture every day and resolving to order an espresso machine from Amazon on his lunch break.  Learning to make his own coffee had to be less agonizing than this.

He got stuck at the crossing at the end of the block, the giant white hand mocking his need to retreat to the safety of his lab.  Sometimes it was the only place where anything made sense.  Where everything behaved in a predictable manner, and held no secrets or ulterior motives.  Where he had control.

“Hey, wait!”

He’d heard the voice only once before, but he’d recognize it anywhere.  He turned around, and spotted McBrawny as he wove through the heavy foot traffic.  He moved like a predator, full of power and confidence and a grace that came from knowing exactly what you were capable of.

He beelined for Castiel.

“I think this is yours.”  He held out a cell phone.  “It was on the counter.”

Castiel looked at the device, his brow furrowing with confusion.  It certainly looked like his phone — same case, same chip in the corner of the screen from when Balthazar had knocked it off the kitchen counter.  He patted his jacket pockets; they were empty.  He didn’t recall removing it from his jacket, though.  Had he been that distracted?

He took the phone.  Their fingers brushed, and Castiel felt it all the way up his arm and across his chest like an electric shock.  “Thank you —”

“Dean,” he said, giving Castiel another glimpse of that smile.  It was addictive.  Like heroin, and just as dangerous.  The world’s noise fell away and left Castiel feeling weightless. Unburdened.  “My name’s Dean.”

“Thank you, Dean.”  Castiel liked the name, he decided.  It fit, and he could get used to the way it felt on his tongue.  “That would have been most inconvenient.”

Not to mention Anna would never let him hear the end of it if he lost another phone.

“Anna?”

Castiel blinked.  Had he spoken aloud?

“Is she your—” 

“Sister.  Anna is my sister.”

Dean smiled.  “Listen, would you wanna get drinks some time?  Tomorrow maybe?”

Castiel processed: drinks; Dean; tomorrow.  Presumably in public.  And Dean looked so hopeful, standing before him in the middle of the sidewalk.  This escalated quickly.  Castiel cleared his throat.  “I have a prior engagement tomorrow evening.”

“That’s cool.”  

Castiel’s phone was magically back in Dean’s hands, his fingers swiping across the screen.  Dean grinned again when he finished, looked Castiel dead in the eye, and closed the distance between them.  The air became charged, and Castiel had never been less inclined to put space between himself and another human being in his entire life.The beautiful man in front of him was like gravity, dizzying and inescapable.  Dean slipped his phone into the breast pocket of his overcoat, and straighten his tie, fingers trailing down the length of silk.  

Castiel felt it in his bones.

“Text me,” Dean said, his voice low.  “You’re gonna miss your chance.”

“Excuse me?”

Dean pointed across the road.  The light had changed.

“Yes.  Thank you.”

Castiel hurried across the intersection while he could, and spent the entire walk to the lab reciting the periodic table in his head.  

If Dean was gravity, then falling for him would be like diving head first into a black hole.  There would be no way out.

 

@@@

 

“He’s gone,” Dean said as he watched the quirky scientist walk away, allowing himself a sigh of relief. He hoped his voice was steady, because his insides felt like Jell-o. Making eye contact with Castiel Milton was like having his soul examined under a microscope.

“ _ All right _ ,” Bobby said. “ _ Y’all know what to do next. We’ll meet back at the hotel at 1400.” _

Dean took out his comm. He needed a moment to himself.

“Well, that was touch and go,” Jo said, popping up beside him. 

Dean jumped. She was like a goddamn ninja. “Sonofa-  Someone oughtta put a freakin’ bell on you.”

“Cat burglar,” Jo said, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think you were gonna make the pull in time.”

“Just because I don’t pick pockets for fun, doesn’t mean I can’t,” Dean snapped.  She’d tagged along at Bobby’s insistence. Tucked in a corner and disguised as a morning commuter, going so far as to suffer the indignity of a pantsuit and heels, she’d witnessed the whole cringe-worthy thing. But she was right. He’d been caught off-guard, let himself get trapped in those laser beam eyes, and he’d almost blown the whole thing. Maybe that was why Bobby had Jo come with him — to make sure they got Milton’s phone cloned if Dean screwed the pooch. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “Have a little faith.”

“Quit eye-fucking the mark, and I will.”

Dean turned to glare at her, and found her already staring at him, a funny expression on her shrewd face. She looked like she was trying to compute trigonometry in her head. Whatever the solution to the equation was, she dismissed it, or saved it for later, and smacked the back of his head.

“Just… get your head in the game, Winchester.”

 

@

 

Dean took the Metro up to Adams Morgan. It was his least favorite way to travel, but D.C. in the throes of cherry blossom season was no fun to drive in, not even in the Impala.  He wasn’t the only one who thought it was picturesque; thousands of tourists flocked in every year to see the little pink flowers. People were weird.

It was okay, though. Without driving to focus on, he got his mind off his interaction with Milton by envisioning what he’d do to Crowley when he got his hands on him. By the time he got to his stop, his blood pressure had returned to normal. Mostly. As long as he didn’t think of blue eyes and chiseled jaws, at least.

_ Get your head in the game, Winchester. _

Sam was counting on it.

The thought was sobering, and Dean grabbed onto it with a vengeance.

The walk to the Milton’s from the Metro station was short, and Dean was pleased to find a moving van parked out front the door of the building propped open. He smiled and waved at the new tenants, like any friendly neighbor would, and walked right in. The Universe must have been looking out for him for once, because the third floor hallway was deserted. It took less than two minutes for Dean to pick the lock.

At the sound of the door, a spectacularly fluffy Blue Persian the size of a beagle appeared in front of Dean, his yellow eyes accusatory. Dean sneezed violently. Freaking cats.

“Balthazar, right?”

The cat licked its paw and yawned, then laid down where it stood.  Dean wasn’t as interesting as it had imagined.

The Milton’s apartment was cool. Dean remembered from the dossier that Anna taught at an art school, but it was obvious that she was more than an art  _ teacher _ . She was an artist. The entire apartment was one massive art project. The ceilings, walls, tables, shelves — none had escaped Anna’s brush. But it looked good. It wasn’t a tacky hodge-podge.  It flowed. 

There were books everywhere. Dean skimmed some of the titles as he wandered through the different rooms and wasn’t surprised to find they had every type of book imaginable: art, history, scientific journals, politics, theology.  All sorts of classics Dean watched Sam read when they were kids. Even more he’d never heard of.  A whole stack of Vonnegut on the end table by the sofa.  An entire shelf of Russian literature.  In Russian.

Dean’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It might have been Milton texting, and was strangely disappointed to see a message from Charlie.  A sassy line of question marks.  Rolling his eyes, Dean put his comm back in his ear.

“Yes, your majesty?”

“ _ Did you take the scenic route? Geez. _ ”

“No, I took the damn Metro. What do you want me to do first?”

“ _ Computer, then bugs _ .”

Milton’s room was the only one not covered in complex murals.  Art still hung on the walls, but the walls themselves were a pale tan color.  The shade was boring, like sand or coffee with way too much milk, but Dean kind of liked it. It felt soothing, homey. An island of tranquility surrounded by a riot of color.

Dean sat at the desk beneath the window and opened the laptop. “Does it matter where I plug this thing in?”

“ _ Nope. Any USB port will do. _ ” Charlie paused. “ _ You know what that is, right _ ?”

“Very funny.”

Charlie’s little doo-dad looked like a big thumb drive with red flashing lights, and unless Milton’s laptop had military grade security, plugging it in was (if Dean understood) like opening a tiny door into the computer’s hard drive. From there Charlie could do whatever she wanted, from wherever she wanted.

“ _ Okie dokie _ ,” Charlie said. “ _ This is gonna take a few minutes. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to sync up the audio.” _

Dean wasn’t going to snoop. He really wasn’t. But, well, he got curious. And a little desperate, if he was being honest. There was a whole lot riding on Dean’s ability to charm his way onto Milton’s arm, and he had no idea how to go about it. The guy was hardly his typical conquest, and with adjectives like cagey and difficult being thrown around in conjunction with the most hardcore poker face Dean had ever come across, Dean was willing to take help from any quarter. Even if that meant digging through the guy’s underwear drawer.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Wedged between the mattress and the box spring, with the corner sticking out, Dean found an enormous leather-bound journal. It was a deep, deep brown, like dark chocolate, and scuffed from years of handling. Feeling like a total d-bag, Dean flipped through the thick, hand pressed pages. Milton’s handwriting was tiny, cramped, and an unpredictable combination of upper- and lowercase letters. The journal was more like a scrapbook, filled with fragments of photographs, newspaper clippings, poetry, and mathematical equations scribbled in the corners. An entire page was dedicated to the preservation of fortune cookie messages, the tiny rectangles taped in precise rows.

_ A good beginning is half the task. _

_ Success lies in the hands of those who want it. _

_ It takes less time to do a thing right, than to explain why you did it wrong. _

_ One that would have the fruit must climb the tree. _

_ Big journeys begin with a single step. _

_ Of all our human resources, the most precious is the desire to improve. _

Dean turned the page. Glued in in the center was a picture of Milton with another man. He was taller than Milton, with reddish brown hair, pale eyes, and the bone structure of a Roman centurion; he was a good lookin’ guy.  Jealousy twinged unexpectedly, making his heart race.  Milton looked so damn happy, like there was no place he’d rather be than tucked beneath the other guy’s arm. He still seemed awkward, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, but the smile splitting his face from ear to ear could have eclipsed the sun.

It was beautiful.  _ He  _ was beautiful.

“Hey, Charlie, were you able to dig up anything on Milton’s ex?”

“ _ You mean Ezekiel Bennet, slime ball extraordinaire? _ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _ It took a little elbow grease, but I got the low-down.” _

“And?”

“ _ The guy had a wife and two kids in Maryland. They’re still married. _ ”

The urge to punch Ezekiel Bennet in his perfectly square jaw was intense. It faded fast when Dean realized he was doing the same thing.  True, Dean didn’t have a family hidden the next state over, but he was lying to Milton.  Using him.

“That was, what, five years ago?”

“ _ Six.” _

And he still hadn’t moved on. Dean glanced at the photograph one more time, and noticed another fortune cookie paper taped beneath it.  

_ A part of us remains wherever we have been. _

Castiel Milton wasn’t cagey or difficult. He was a heartbroken romantic with trust issues. Dean could work with that, and he hated himself all the more for thinking it.

 

**@@@**

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Castiel hadn’t been in the building for five minutes before the crazy started.  

Zachariah was waiting for him when he stepped off the elevator. He was a distinctly unpleasant individual, with his greasy bald head, his greasy smile, and his weaselly blue eyes.  Castiel had been at Sandover for twelve years, and he still had no idea what Zachariah actually did. He did know the man could make your life hell if you crossed him, and Castiel wanted to count his fingers every time he shook his greasy hand.

Zachariah was to be avoided at all costs. He followed Castiel down the hallway regardless.

“Castiel,” he greeted with a cheerfulness so phony it made Castiel’s teeth hurt. “Just the man I’m looking for.”

“Zachariah,” Castiel greeted, wary of his ability to be polite at this point in the morning.

“I wanted to remind you that your attendance is required tomorrow at the fundraising gala for St. Joseph’s.”

“My tuxedo waits for me at the cleaners as we speak.”

“And will your sister be joining you again this year?”

“Unfortunately, she is otherwise engaged.”  One of her former students had his first a gallery opening in Annapolis, and she’d promised to attend.

“Ah.”  Zachariah clasped his hands behind his back.  “More’s the pity.  A delightful creature.”

Disturbing. Castiel didn’t know what to do with that.

“And have you found anyone to, ah, stand in for her?”

Castiel stopped outside his office, desperate to barricade himself inside. Anything not to talk to this man.  “Are you asking me if I have a date?”

“We wouldn’t want a repeat of the 2011 fiasco, would we?”

Castiel bristled.  

Zachariah caught on. He threw his hands up in a placating gesture as he backed away. “Food for thought.”

He considered it an accomplishment that he didn’t slam the door behind him.

Becky Rosen was next. He’d barely shrugged out of his overcoat before she was beating down his door to the tune of Shave and a Haircut.  She worked in Human Resources, and was the most upbeat person Castiel had ever met. And handsy, which was ironic. Thankfully, they only met once or twice a year, sometimes less, because Castiel could only take her in small doses.

“Good morning, Dr. Milton,” she sing-songed when he opened the door.

“Ms. Rosen. How can I help you?”

“Oh, pssh.” She fluttered a hand in his general direction, but refrained from touching him. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Becky?”

Castiel sighed. “Becky.”

“Much better. Listen, I know you’re suuuuper busy, but Hannah’s got the flu — I know, weird — and the new interns are here for their orientation. She usually gives the tours and I thought that since most of it is your department and a lot of them would be working under you that maybe you could give the tour?”

“You do not want me to do that. I have been known to make interns cry.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Becky—”

“Pleeeaase? There’s no one else.”

“All right,” Castiel said, unable to tolerate her version of puppy dog eyes a moment longer. “When do you need me?”

“Well… now. Like, right now.”

That explained why she had come up in person instead of phoning or sending an email.

The tour wasn’t that bad. At the very least it was a thorough distraction from the morning’s events. The interns were curious and excited, and Castiel looked forward to working with several of them. Except for this one young woman. She was of average height with blonde hair and an intelligent face, but she was a little, well, strange.  She carried a clipboard with her, but she didn’t use it to take notes; she sketched a vague grid-like diagram with squares and tick marks and x’s all over the place.  More than once Castiel swore she was talking to herself, and at one point he was certain she’d disappeared altogether.

He asked about her, but no one knew who he was talking about.

When he returned from the tour, he had three text messages waiting for him. He knew who they were from, too. Anna would send an email before she texted him, and Gabriel, a consummate night owl on Pacific time, was unlikely to be awake let alone capable of texting. Everyone else Castiel knew were professional colleagues who would not contact him on his personal phone.  That left one person, and Castiel was in no way ready to deal with him.

He dropped the phone in his trouser pocket, messages unopened, and was never more aware of the weight of it against his leg. He stared at his laptop, rereading the same paragraph over and over again.  Dean and the conversation with Zachariah were salt poured on a wound that hadn’t quite healed.  

Sometimes he wondered if it ever would.

He lasted exactly fifty-three minutes before his curiosity got the best of him.

_ From Dean (09:33): So…I didn’t catch your name. _

_ From Dean (10:45):  Sorry if I came on strong. _

_ From Dean (11:07):  If you want me to fuck off, I will. Just say the word. _

Castiel did not want Dean to fuck off. It was a startling revelation. The thought of never having that smile directed at him again was depressing.

He waited thirteen more minutes before calling Anna. She would be about halfway through her afternoon planning period.

“ _ If you’re calling me, you’re not eating.” _

Food. Castiel hadn’t even thought about it. “I was just leaving.”

_ “Liar. We talked about this.” _

“Yes, I know,” he sighed. “I’ll pick something up.”

_ “So, what’s up?” _

Castiel suddenly felt very, very silly.

_ “Cas?” _

“The guy from the cafe...”

_ “McBrawny? What about him?” _

“He, uh, he invited me out for drinks. Tomorrow.”

_ “Shut the front door. What did you say?” _

“I told him I had plans.”

_ “And?” _

“And then I went to work.”

Anna made that noise in the back of her throat that meant she was trying hard not to get frustrated. He’d grown up listening to her make it at Gabriel. He could count on one hand the times she’d made it at him.  _ “Did you get a phone number at least?” _

“Yes, but—”

_ “Stop, Cas. Stop talking yourself out of having the things you want. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to. Not everyone is Ezekiel, and you deserve to be happy.” _

“I doubt his intentions,” Cas replied.

_ “I know, which is exactly my point. But he’s not asking you to marry him. He’s asking for drinks. What’s the worst that could happen?” _

As a strict adherent of Murphy’s Law, Castiel could think several possibilities. The laws of probability were not on his side.

_ “You know what, don’t answer that. _ ” Anna sighed.  _ “I just want to see you smile again.” _

“I smile.”

_ “Text him, will ya? And eat something.” _

Castiel stared at his phone when she hung up, like it might have better answers than his sister. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to go as far as Los Angeles to find something different.

 

@@@

 

“So, what’s my story?” Dean asked.  He was the only customer in the formal wear shop and the saleswoman was in the back grabbing a tux in his size, but he still kept his voice low.   Dean hoped he’d need the monkey suit, because he doubted they’d find another way into Sandover on such short notice.  His hand brushed compulsively over the phone in his pocket, hyper aware that Milton had yet to respond to any of his texts.

_ “Freelance photographer, specializing in active combat zones,”  _ Charlie replied. _ “You served four tours—” _

“You kept that in?”

_ “Dean, everything about you screams ‘soldier’. It’s one thing you can’t fake.” _

“Really?”

_ “Yeah, doofus. Anyway, you’ve been overseas and have only been back for three weeks.  You have a little brother who’s a lawyer and a Facebook page you never update.” _

“Seriously?”

_ “Hey, the best lies are closest to the truth. Except the Facebook page bit, but I thought it made your fake life more credible. Everyone has a Facebook page.” _

“You know I’m wanted in nine countries, right?”

“ _ Don’t worry, I encrypted all the pics I posted.” _

Well, that was a relief. Last thing he needed was Interpol crashing this party. “How do you come up with all this?”

_ “I only sleep three hours a night and I type 120 words per minute.” _

Jesus. Dean had just moved out of the hunt-and-peck stage.

“What would we do without you?”

“ _ Nothing. You’d be in prison waiting for me to break you out. _ ”

Dean’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Twice.

_ “Milton … Milton texted you.” _

Dean’s heart leapt into his throat.  

“I think this one will fit you perfectly,” the sales woman piped up behind him. He’d heard the click-clack of her heels, but it hadn’t registered.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll try it on real quick.”

Dean tried the tux on. It fit fine, but he didn’t care. He wanted his blood pressure to be in normal ranges when he replied. He had almost blown it that morning, picking Milton’s phone from his pocket and dealing with the man himself. This was a delicate situation, and he needed to focus on doing it right.

Only after he put his own clothes back on did he check the messages.

_ From Castiel Milton: Castiel. _

_ From Castiel Milton:  Lunch? _

Dean felt a strange combination of excitement and relief.

_ From You: When and where? _

 

@

 

The food truck Milton chose for their not-a-date was at the other end of the block, but Dean picked that tan trench coat out of the crowd with laser precision. He was waiting for Dean off to the side, clear of the line. It was hard to get a read on the guy, but he looked nervous. The pang of self-loathing Dean felt was vicious.

“Guys, I’m going radio silent.”

“ _ You sure about that, son? _ ”  

Dean hadn’t heard a peep out of Bobby since the cafe, and he wondered how much he’d heard. Probably all of it. “I can’t do this with the rabble in my ear.”

_ “I resent that.”  _ Jo.

_ “Me too.”  _  Charlie.

Bobby grunted.   _ “You know what’s at stake.” _

Dean took out his earbud and put it in his pocket.  What he was doing was bad enough — actively betraying someone who was trying to trust him. He didn’t need an audience.  Milton would never come around if he couldn’t find something about Dean to trust, which meant Dean would have to be something he rarely was, even with his crew.  Hell, even with Sam.  With  _ himself _ .

He’d have to be vulnerable.  He was going to have to give Milton tiny bits of himself, bits he wouldn’t get back, in the hopes that Milton would be comfortable enough to let Dean into his life.  And Dean would have to live the rest of his life knowing; he couldn’t bear it if everyone else did too.

With a deep breath and one final reminder that Sam’s life was on the line, he made his way toward Milton. He was charming all the time. He could do this.

“Castiel,” he called out when he was close enough not to shout. Dean smiled when he turned, and was surprised by how genuine it felt.

“Dean. Thank you for meeting me.”

“Sorry I’m late. Had to take the Metro. You didn’t waste your lunch break waiting on me, did ya?”

Tugging on his tie, Milton cleared his throat. “I took the afternoon off.”

Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Playin’ hooky? You rebel.”

Milton’s lips twitched, like they wanted to smile, but didn’t quite make it. “Today has been… bizarre.  And there’s nothing I have to do that I cannot do from home.”

“No rush then. I’m starving.”

They ordered burgers and fries, and, at Milton’s suggestion, walked a little ways to a small park with bistro tables set up around a fountain. It was well after one o’clock, so the park was quiet. Aside from a couple of old men playing chess, they had the spot to themselves.  

The sun was high and warm, an early taste of the summer to come, and Milton shrugged off his coat, revealing a figure more toned than Dean would have expected for a guy who spent most of his time in a lab. Hidden away inside of that too-big coat was a nicely sculpted set of shoulders and thighs that strained the fabric of his trousers when he sat. And his  _ hands _ .  Long-boned and graceful, Dean watched, entranced, as Milton deftly unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Each movement was methodical, precise.

Dean dug in his lunch bag, just to look at something else.

Milton took an enormous bite of his burger and groaned. “That makes me very happy.”

The sound was borderline erotic, and it took more self control than Dean usually engaged to keep from staring at his mouth, or following the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.  The struggle was real. “Burger guy?” 

“I’m sorry,” Milton said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “My sister is a vegetarian.  It is not very often I get to eat something so—”

“Beefy?”

Milton smiled. It was a shadow of the smile Dean knew he was capable of, but it still transformed his entire expression. He became bright, electric even, and Dean could get used to it. All too easily.

“Yes.”

“I hear ya. My brother’s real into all that rabbit food, so I’ve got to fend for myself when we’re together.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah, Sam. He’s a lawyer.” 

At least he used to be, before he got dragged back into this life in the worst way possible.  Still would be if their dad’s ghosts hadn’t come back to haunt them. And if Dean hadn’t been on the other side of the globe doing Crowley’s dirty work, he might have been able to stop it. Now look where they were.

“What about you?  Is it just you and Anna?”

Milton shook his head.  “We have a brother, too.  Gabriel lives in Los Angeles.  Does Sam live in D.C. as well?”

Dean nodded, chewing and swallowing a couple of fries. Not only were they some of the best fries he’d ever had, but they allowed him to stall while he came up with most of this on the fly. Charlie had only given him the bare bones of his legend; he’d need to fill her in later. “I’m here visiting him, actually.”

“You don’t live here, then.”  

It wasn’t a question, and Milton’s expression returned to its carefully schooled self. Closed off. Dean didn’t like it; he preferred Milton smiling and open. He recalled Ezekiel Bennet and his secret family, though, and realized where Castiel’s train of thought had gone.

“I don’t really live anywhere. We grew up on the road. Sam settled. I kept moving.” It wasn’t much better, but it was the truth.

“So there’s nowhere you call home?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. I go wherever the job takes me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Photographer. Freelance.”

“Really?” Milton replied, surprised.  

“What?”

Milton blushed a little, and it was  _ not  _ adorable. “I apologize, I assumed you did something more… physical.”

Dean took the compliment. “Last year I spent four months wandering around Syria documenting the refugee crisis.  Trust me, it was plenty physical.”

It was sort of true. He once spent four weeks in Syria with his unit hunting down an Al Qaeda insurgent they chased in from Mosul. There were plenty of refugees, even back then, and that asshole hadn’t been above using them to hide in, or as human shields.

Charlie was going to kill him later.

“You’re a war photojournalist.”  

“Wherever they’re pointing guns at each other, that’s where I usually am. And there’s no shortage of work, not these days.”

Milton mulled this over, gradually relaxing in his seat. It was a small thing, a minute shifting of his weight, an easing of his shoulders, but it spoke volumes. He was getting comfortable. “You enjoy putting yourself in harm’s way?”

Dean had never thought of it like that. To someone on the outside looking in he figured it was a logical conclusion, but there was more to it.  “Some things just need doin’, Cas.”

Milton pensive, and when he spoke, it was slow and deliberate.  Cautious, almost. “Do you like your work?”

Dean didn’t have an answer. 

“I apologize if I’m prying, but the way you talk about it, like it’s more of a burden to bear than a passion…”

Maybe Milton  _ had  _ examined Dean’s soul under a microscope. Christ.  

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my job. The things I’ve been able to see and do, the people I’ve helped… I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything. But some of the things that have happened lately,  I feel like the lines have gotten blurry and…I don’t know.”

“You’re ready for something different, but aren’t sure how to let go?”

“Or if I can even do anything different.” Dean shrugged. He forgot for a second that he was talking about his fake career as a photographer, not his actual life, and he wondered where the hell all this crap was coming from. Like, seriously. Or why he was saying it out loud.  “Don’t listen to me. I’m talkin’ out my ass.”

“I know how you feel.”

That…wasn’t the response Dean expected. He leaned forward, pushing the remnants of his lunch out of the way and resting his forearms on the table, because, God help him, he was curious.  

“It seems I have reached the pinnacle of my career,” Milton continued, picking at his French fries, “and I’m not sure what I want to happen next.”

“What do you do now?”

“I’m a research scientist.”

“That’s cool. What do you research?”

“It’s…complicated.”

“So break it down Barney-style.”

Milton’s lips curled in amusement. “Energy.”

Dean laughed.  “Okay, I know I look like a dumb jock, but give me some credit.”

“Nothing about you suggests stupidity, Dean,” Milton replied gravely.

Dean face heated, and it didn’t have anything to do with the afternoon sun. “So hit me with it.”

Milton stared at him, gauging Dean’s sincerity. “What do you know about nuclear fusion?”

Dean skimmed through his memories of what Charlie had told him the day before. The woman was a life saver. “It’s what powers the sun, right? Gravity mashes hydrogen atoms together to make helium, and boom. Heat.”

“Essentially, yes.  It’s a highly efficient energy source, but it has its shortcomings.”

“Like?”

“Creating an atmosphere conducive to fusion is difficult. The sun uses it’s own gravity, which is impossible to duplicate. There has been some limited success using high-powered magnets in combination with an alternating electric current, but, so far, the energy required to heat the plasma has been roughly equal to the amount of energy produced.”

“Which makes it pretty useless as a fuel source.”

“Precisely. Until the input can be decreased or the output increased, it’s little more than an expensive light show.”

“So what’s your angle?”

“I’ve developed a way to do it at room temperature.”

“Cold fusion.”

“We prefer to call it Low-Energy Nuclear Reactions. Walking into a room of scientists and telling them you study cold fusion will get you laughed out of the building.”

“That’s incredible, Cas,” Dean said, and even though he already knew what Milton told him, it was still true. “So you’re like, a genius.”

“Hardly,” Milton said, huffing a laugh. “I’m just very persistent.” 

“I get it though. What’s a guy supposed to do after he solves the world’s energy problems? Tough act to follow.”

“I was a sophomore in high school when Fleischmann and Pons first announced they’d reproduced cold fusion, and despite they were proved charlatans, I’ve never stopped believing it was possible. Now that I’ve done it…It’s very frustrating, not knowing what I want. Not having a clear purpose. It’s not something to which I am accustomed.”

Dean’s gut twisted. This guy had busted his ass for nearly thirty years to make his vision a reality, and here Dean was doing his level best to steal it from him.

“I guess, whatever I do next, I want it to be what I want. I don’t want it to be out of a sense of obligation. No pretense.  What do you want from whatever’s next?”

“I just want to be okay with the guy lookin’ back at me in the mirror. To not have to fake it.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve filled up my mistake quota, you know?  Like I can’t afford to make any more.  Whatever I do next, it’s gotta be the right thing.” 

“That is my principal objection to life, I think: It’s too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes.”

“Vonnegut,” Dean said, and was gifted with a glimpse of that smile again.  

“One of my favorites.”

“Mine, too.” He took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. He felt exposed, and hated it. “So this is what a mid-life crisis looks like, huh?”

“I guess so.” Milton tugged on his tie, suddenly uncomfortable again. “Dean… are you still available tomorrow evening?”

That awful, tight feeling that had taken up residence in Dean’s chest the moment he heard Crowley’s voice eased, just a fraction. “Yeah.  What’d’ya have in mind?”

“My company is hosting a fundraising gala for St. Joseph’s tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“It’s black-tie.”

“I think I can scrounge up a tux.”

“I’ll be expected to spend a fair portion of the evening socializing with benefactors.”

“I’m adorable. They’ll love me.”

“It—”

“Jesus, you trying to talk me out of it, Cas?  I asked you out first.  You think I care where we go?”

“I just don’t want you to—”

“Miss out on free booze and the chance to see you lookin’ all spiffy? Me either.”

Milton’s cheeks pinked again.  _ God _ .  It never got old, and was in great danger of becoming one of Dean’s favorite things.

“If you’re sure.”

“Hell yeah.”

Cas smiled, for real, all shining white teeth and crinkly eyes, and nothing could have prepared Dean for witnessing its brilliance in person.  It was breathtaking.  

“Okay.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile back.  

 

@

 

Dean startled awake in the dead of night with the sensations of heat on his skin and sand on his tongue and gunshots in his ears. He’d spent too much time in his own head, opened too many locked doors, and he was paying for it. He couldn’t believe some of the things he’d said to Cas. It was like an entirely different person had taken control of his mouth. He’d told that dorky scientist things he’d hardly even acknowledged to himself. It had been easy. Like it had happened to someone else.

Dean had gotten what he wanted too. The doors of Sandover Industrial were open, and they were one step closer to bringing Sam home.

He kept telling himself this was a good thing, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like shit about it.

_ Thunk…thunk…thunk, thunk. _

Curious and knowing it was unlikely he’d fall back to sleep, Dean got out of bed and followed the sound.

He found Jo in the living room, throwing knives at the wall.  Charlie snored face-down on her workstation, her expression peaceful in the soft glow of her work light.

“Well, there goes the security deposit.”

Jo spared him a glare before she executed a fancy twirling move and threw two knives in rapid succession. They struck the wall within an inch of each other.

“Something on your mind?”

She growled and threw one last knife. “I’m feeling things.”

Dean left and came back with the whiskey and two glasses. He pointed to the sofa.  “Sit.”

Jo did as she was told, but only after she’d drained her glass and had him pour her a second. Dean joined her, propping one foot up on the white coffee table. Jo had her back against the arm and her legs crossed beneath her. She stared at him, one hand wrapped tightly around her glass, the other clutching at her knee.

“I know Sam usually walks you through this crap, and that I’m the least capable hand-holder ever, but… you wanna talk about it?”

Jo looked skeptical. Dean didn’t blame her.

“Come on, I’ve been feeling shit all day, too. Misery loves company.”

“You called him ‘Cas.’”

Dean froze. 

“You did; I heard you,” Jo replied, distraught. “When you were debriefing Charlie, you said it. This morning he was Milton and now he’s Cas. I saw how you looked at him, Dean, at the cafe, and I convinced myself that I didn’t.” She swallowed the whiskey in one go. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Don’t hold anything back. Geez.”

“I’m serious, Dean.”

“No kidding.”  

“You knew he’d be at that cafe.”

“I sat there casing the hotel every day for three weeks, Jo. I was going to notice him.”  He tried not to sound defensive, but wasn’t sure it was working.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have a thing for the mark.”

Dean looked her in the eye. “I don’t have a thing for the mark.”

“Sonofabitch.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying!”

Behind them Charlie snorted. With bated breath, they listened to see if they’d woken her.  Dean was grateful for the interruption; Jo was getting more wound-up than he was comfortable with, and he regretted instigating this chick-flick moment. He’d expected some angsting over Sam, not this ambush.

Jo leaned forward, emphatically waving a hand between them. “We don’t do this,” she whispered harshly.

“Do what?” he whispered back.

“ _ Emotions _ . Bobby, you know, he drinks his, and that’s cool because it works, and Charlie — she’s all over the place.  She feels enough for all of us, and Sam… Sam’s the stable one, you know? You keep us safe,” she jabbed a finger in Dean’s chest, “Sam keeps us sane.”

Dean knew it. It was the same way when they were kids. Dean made sure there was food on the table and clothes on their backs, and Sam made sure Dean didn’t go crazy trying to do it.

“It hasn’t been two whole days and you’ve already lost your goddamn mind.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not what we’re supposed to do, you and me. Sentiment is useless. It holds us back, keeps us from making the tough decisions, from doing things no one else can do. Sam needs that from us right now. He fucking deserves it.”

Dean’s irritation spiked. “If you’re suggesting that I would choose anything over my brother, you don’t know me very well.”

“Not on purpose, but I think you like Milton and it’s got you all conflicted, and that’s worse. You’re gonna go in tomorrow half-cocked and twitter-pated and blow the whole thing and Sam’s gonna die,  _ and then what’re we gonna do _ ?”

Like a ninja, Charlie appeared at Dean’s side, disheveled and exhausted. She took Dean’s untouched drink and downed it, her face pinching. “Ugh, when are you gonna start drinking vodka?”

“Never.”

Sighing, Charlie plopped onto the sofa, tucking herself into his side like a cat.  Dean smiled indulgently and let her. If it was anyone else, he’d enforce all sorts of personal boundaries, but Charlie was like the kid sister he’d always wanted, and he tended to spoil her.

“Take a chill pill, Josephine.”

Jo glared.  She hated when Charlie called her that, which was why Charlie kept at it.  “Assuming you heard everything, why are you not more concerned about this?”

“Too tired to freak out,” Charlie mumbled, pulling Dean’s arm around her shoulders.  “Dean always does the right thing, even when it sucks.” She yawned. “’Sides, he feels stuff all the time, he just doesn’t want us to know it.”

Dean considered rallying a protest, but a moment later Charlie snored and it didn’t matter.

He also wanted to be pissed at Jo, but she was right. About everything. Dean squeezed her hand and looked her in the eye. “Whatever I may or may not feel for Castiel Milton, I promise you by the end of the weekend, Sam’s gonna be sittin’ right here next to us, safe as houses.”

Jo held his gaze before letting out a sharp exhale of relief. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped and for a panicky moment he thought she might cry.  She didn’t, thank God, but executed a graceful rocking motion and the next thing Dean knew she was tucked up under his other arm, mirroring Charlie. Dean froze. In the years he’d known Jo, he’d never seen her do anything even close to snuggling. But he wasn’t any more capable of pushing her away than he was Charlie, because Jo was like the sister he didn’t know he’d wanted until she turned up, and if she needed this from him, he supposed he could let it go, this once.

“I’mma hold you to it, Winchester,” she whispered.

“I’m counting on it.”

The last thought he had before drifting off was that maybe they’d all lost their goddamn minds.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel was in the bathroom waging war against his bowtie when the buzzer rang.  With a flash of anxiety, he looked at his watch.  How was it seven o’clock already?  Where had the last hour gone?  Why did his hair laugh at styling product? What in the seven hells had made him think this was a good idea?  

He should have gone solo and endured Zachariah’s jabs for the next year.

“He’s on his way up!” Anna called.

Castiel fought with the tie for another minute before deciding it was just going to have to be awful, took one deep, bracing breath, and exited the room.  He was an intelligent, accomplished individual who had in fact been on a date before.  He could do this.  

That was his mantra, at least, as he made his way into the living room.

Dean was already inside, chatting with Anna at the door, all smiles and ease and looking as dashing and debonair in his tuxedo as a James Bond stunt double.  Castiel observed Dean in this new setting.  He envied how comfortable Dean was in his own skin, how charming and self-possessed he was, regardless of the situation.  Dean was bold in a way that Castiel couldn’t comprehend.  He made decisions in the heat of the moment, while Castiel researched and planned things to death.  Dean was mysterious and vibrant, and yet he set Castiel completely at ease.  

There was something else, too, something Castiel had struggled to put his finger on.  Dean was so much more… _ alive _ than anyone he’d ever met.  He was the human embodiment of kinetic energy, existing to be in motion.  Castiel wondered if that made him the human embodiment of potential energy, always responding to his environment, only taking action when prompted.

“Earth to Cas?” Anna said, her voice full of laughter. 

How long had she been trying to get his attention?  How long had he been staring at Dean like an idiot?  “I apologize,” he said, tugging at his tie.  “You were saying?”

“You’re going to be late.  So am I, for that matter.”  She snatched her clutch and wrap off the coffee table and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  “Have fun,” she whispered.

“Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get a hotel if I drink too much.  It was nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too, Anna.”

But Dean wasn’t looking at Anna when he spoke.  His eyes glued to Castiel, wide and appreciative, and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.  The door shut behind him, sounding ten times louder in the silent room.   He’d been self-conscious, feeling awkward and over-dressed in his tuxedo, but it was hard to remember why with Dean looking at him like that.  Like he wanted to peel the suit off of him, piece by piece.  Castiel was acutely aware of how alone they were, and remembered his impression of Dean the day before, as a predator.  

Did that make him the prey?

Dean broke the silence with a rough clearing of his throat.  He stepped further into the room, and extended a small plastic box toward Castiel.  “I, uh, I bought an extra boutonniere. I didn’t know if you needed one and, well… It’s whatever.”

“I forgot,” Castiel said, taking the box.  Inside was a plain red rosebud bundled up with a sprig of baby’s breath.  Carefully, he pinned it onto his lapel.  “Thank you, Dean.”

“Ready to hit the road?”

Castiel sighed.  “I suppose there’s no point in delaying.”

Dean laughed, breaking the tension, and steered Castiel toward the door.  “Come on, man.  We’ll get a couple of drinks in ya, and before you know it the night will be over.”

Dean’s car was impractical, especially in a city with as much traffic as Washington D.C., but beautiful.  The Impala was in pristine condition despite being fifty years old, and Dean talked about it like it was his child and not his transportation, which was bizarrely endearing. The bench seats were comfortable, and the cabin smelled of conditioned leather and Dean, and Castiel tried his best to relax into it as they drove, Dean humming along to Zeppelin in the background.  This time the silence was comfortable, and Castiel prepared himself for the evening ahead.  

Castiel went to tug on his bowtie for the hundredth time since they got in the car, when Dean reached out and caught his hand mid-motion.  Dean’s fingers were hot and dry on his skin, and quite effective at silencing Castiel’s brain.

“You’re gonna strangle yourself.”

Dean’s hand wrapped around his rendered Castiel speechless.  It was a good thing they were at a light because Dean was paying far more attention to Castiel than he was his surroundings.  With their eyes locked, it felt like forever before Dean released Castiel’s hand.

“What’s got your shorts in a knot?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“I find these events distasteful,” Castiel confessed.

“Why?  St. Joseph’s is a hospital, right?”

“This is Washington D.C., and there will be a lot of money changing hands tonight.  Nights like this always bring the power-hungry out of the woodwork.”

Dean made a face that suggested he agreed.

“The hospital I can support; the politics inherent in dealing with people like that is another story.  I lack both the inclination and the tact to play their kinds of games.”  Castiel sighed.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“We talked about this, Cas,” Dean said, throwing him a sly smile as the car rolled forward once more.  “I promise I’ll keep you as preoccupied as possible.”

Castiel smiled back, Dean drawing the reaction out of him with an ease and frequency that should have alarmed him.

 

@@@

 

Keeping his eyes on the road and not on Cas was way more difficult than it should have been.  Especially after Dean went and held his hand.  Dean knew he looked good in a tux even if he hated them, but Cas looked like a goddamn GQ model.  It was unfair, because after tonight, Dean would never see him again.

_ “I’ve been groped once already,”  _ Jo said, “ _ but I’m in position _ .”  

_ “Ditto.”  _  Charlie.

_ “Let us know when you get inside so we can get the ball rollin’,” _  Bobby said.

They were only minutes away, and Dean focused on the road and the sound of Charlie humming off-key over the comms.  Jo had been right.  He needed to stop acting like this was a date, and start treating it like a job.  The most important job he’d ever pulled.

A couple of DC/Metro uniforms directed traffic outside of Sandover Industrial.  Dean followed their instructions, and eased the Impala onto the drive behind a silver Bentley, where a twiggy college kid with too much pomade in his hair and a red valet vest tried to open Dean’s door.

“Not happening, kid,” Dean said, rolling down his window.

“But—”

“No one drives her but me.”

The kid gave the Impala a once-over, then looked at the Bentley, whose driver had already handed off the keys and a tip to another valet, then back to Dean.  “I have a perfect driving record, and you need a security card to get into the garage, sir.”

Cas leaned across so the valet could see him.  “I work here.  I assure you, it’s no trouble.”

Dean dug in his pocket for a twenty dollar bill before the kid could object again.  “Here.  For being a pain in the ass.”

The kid shrugged and pocketed the bill.  “Just follow the car ahead of you.”

Dean breathed a tiny sigh of relief.  Not only did he need to know where Cas kept his swipe card, but he needed to know exactly where he could find the car when the time came to vamoose.  Wandering around the garage with the stolen prototype would be very not bueno.

Cas chuckled beside him.  The deep, rich, sound hit Dean right in the stomach.  “I’ve never met anyone so attached to a thing before.”

“You know, you asked me yesterday if there was anyplace I called home, and I said no.”

“Yes.”

“That I grew up on the road.”

Cas furrowed his brow, then looked around the cabin like he was seeing it in a brand new light.  “This car is your home.”

The way Cas said it,  matter of fact and wholly without judgment.  Not even a trace of pity.  Dean didn’t know what to do with it.

Cas handed him his swipe card when they reached the gate, and dropped it in his left-hand pocket when Dean gave it back.  Dean whipped the car into a space on the first level, as close as he could to the elevator.

“I like her,” Cas said, buttoning his jacket and giving his tie one last tug.  “We’ll have to walk around front.  Security has disabled the elevators for the evening.”

It was a good thing, too.  With security actively monitoring the elevators, their plan would have been even less likely to succeed than it already was.  Charlie could hack camera feeds all the live-long day, but you couldn’t hack a security guard, and Dean preferred to keep the violence to a minimum tonight.

_ “I am officially tapped in, guys, _ ” Charlie said.  

They hadn’t been able to get her into the building, and Charlie was terrible at lying to people’s faces anyway, so she and Bobby had decided to have her go in through the building’s main power grid.  It was risky — she was exposed on the street, completely visible to witnesses and curious police officers alike, but it was safer than trying to get a third man inside.  At least she had her van.  If things got squirrely, she could always bail.  

Cas handed over his invitation to the doorman, who had a burly security guard standing at his side.  Former Marine, by his stance, if Dean had to put money on it.  The guard at the coat check looked like an off-duty cop.  There were half a dozen more scattered throughout the atrium, which was converted for the gala.  The central reception desks were dressed up and transformed into a full bar.  There were round tables draped with white tablecloths arranged on the right side of the room, and beyond them was an impressive spread of hors d’oeuvres and a table dedicated solely to champagne glasses.  On the left side of the room was a small stage with a string quartet and a modest dance floor.  The rest of the room was all vaulted ceilings and open space and groups of mingling D.C. socialites.

There were close to two hundred guests already, and they were only half an hour into the evening.  Dean counted fifteen waitstaff circulating the room, trays balanced expertly as they distributed glasses of champagne.

“Swanky,” Dean said.

Milton snorted.  “All I see is reception.”

_ “I’ve got eyes on you,” _ Jo said.   _ “Ten o’clock. _ ”

Dean’s gaze flicked toward the back and to the left, catching a flash of blond hair.  Jo was handing off the last of her glasses, and trying to look like she didn’t want to stab someone.  An all-expenses-paid trip to Aruba and a fake resume had gotten Jo in with the caterers, and while an effective in, it was one of her least favorite.  Actually, anything that involved uniforms and human interaction was at the bottom of her list.  Give her elevator shafts and air ducts all day long.

Dean spent the next twenty minutes being an exemplary date.  He smiled and shook hands with everyone Cas talked with, laughed at all the right places, and pulled Cas away from people who were irritating him.  Poker face or not, it was getting easier to read him.  It was the little things, a wrinkle of the brow here, the press of lips there, the perpetual tugging of the tie. 

And Dean flirted, too.  Dropping Cas sly smiles, brushing elbows and shoulders, generally making physical contact with the other man.  It was easy, too easy, but watching Cas relax and come alive beside him was intoxicating.  Dean couldn’t take his eyes off him.

It was important for people to see them together.  To remember them.

_ “Security cameras are mine!  Muahahaha!”  _ Charlie crowed.  “ _ Waitin’ on you, slow poke. _ ”

Dean barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

_ “Two minutes and I’ll make my pass,” _ Jo said.

Dean was on Cas’ right; the keycard was in his left pocket.  

A snobby black man with no facial expressions called Raphael and his equally stoic date wandered away to turn their gloom on someone else, and Cas heaved an audible sigh of relief.  “I need a drink.”

Dean had never agreed with a sentiment so wholeheartedly in his entire life.

“And I… I want to thank you for joining me, Dean.  Your company has made this far more tolerable.”

It was a good thing he couldn’t die of guilt, because Dean made the mistake of looking into those incredible, blue eyes and  _ Jesus Christ _ .  He couldn’t to look away, or move, or blink or anything.

“Castiel,” said a distinctly oily voice.

Cas’ back stiffened and his lips pressed together so firmly they were little more than a white line above his chin.  He turned and stepped to the side, giving Dean a clear view of the voice’s owner.  He was tall, bald on top, rather round in the middle, and had beady blue eyes.  He gave Dean the overall impression of a paunchy ferret.

“Zachariah.”

“I see you made it.”

“As I said I would.”

“And who is your—”

“Date,” Dean said, stepping up and offering his hand.  Zachariah looked at it like it might bite before shaking it.  Dean may or may not have squeezed a little harder than necessary. “Dean.  Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”  The look on his face suggested this was untrue.  He gave Dean a judgmental appraisal, then turned his sneer on Cas.  “When I suggested you bring a date, I didn’t mean the sort you pay for.  You do realize this is a fundraiser for a  _ Catholic  _ hospital?”

Dean wanted to punch Zachariah in the face.  So did Cas, Dean suspected, if his balled-up fists were any indication.  Cas opened his mouth to respond, but Dean saved him the trouble.

“Actually,” Dean said, slipping his arm around Cas’ waist and tugging him close.  He resisted for only a second before leaning into Dean.  “Cas and I have been together for, what?  Three years now?”

Zachariah’s face pinched.

“That sounds about right,” Cas said, and Dean could have sworn he heard the faintest hint of a smile in the other man’s voice.  

“I work overseas, but we met when I was here visiting my brother.”  Dean shrugged, and pulled Cas even closer, snaking his fingertips into his jacket pocket and pinching the keycard between his first and second fingers.  “That’s all she wrote.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Jo making her approach.

Zachariah looked torn between letting Cas have it, and not wanting to make a scene.  They were in the middle of the crowd.  Caution won out.  “Just keep the PDA to a minimum.  And stay away from Fathers O’Malley and Reynaud.  You know how Bartholomew is.”

Dean waited until Zachariah was out of earshot before he stepped away from Cas, taking the keycard with him.  Jo passed behind him as he did, plucking the card from between his fingers.

Cas looked like he was trying not to laugh.  “I should not have enjoyed that as much as I did.”

Dean waved him off.  “That guy’s a dickhead.”

“Still, thank you.  You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I kinda did.”  Dean took a deep breath, shoving what happened to the back of his mind and focusing on what needed to happen next.  “But, we’ve been here too long without booze.  I’m gonna hit the bar.  What can I bring you?”

“Chardonnay, please.”

“One chardonnay, coming up.”

_ “Uh, you guys?  We’ve got company,”  _ Charlie said.  “ _ I just spotted Meg Masters coming out of the ladies’.” _

_ “Balls. _ ”  Bobby.  “ _ You sure it was her? _ ”

_ “Remember that time she kicked me in the face?  Yeah, I’m sure. _ ”

Dean had to agree with Bobby’s assessment.  Meg only worked with Lucifer, and they were both batshit crazy.  And if Meg was on site, Ruby wasn’t too far away.  Either of them was bad news all on their own; together they were a real fucking problem.

In line for the bar, Dean surveyed the room one more time.  Jo was out of sight, but so was Meg, which was worrying.  Then his eyes landed on a tall, grey-haired man in all black with a white collar.  He’d recognize that irritating face anywhere.

“Kubrick is here,” Dean said.  Fathers O’Malley and Reynaud his  _ ass _ .  “Which means Gordon is here too.”

_ “How do they even know? _ ” Jo said.  Her voice echoed, which meant she was in the ventilation shafts.  

_ “I don’t know, but this party’s gettin’ a little crowded,” _ Bobby said.   _ “Hurry up and give the doc his medicine so we can get the hell out of dodge. _ ”

Dean brushed his hand over the tiny tablet in his breast pocket, and felt another twinge of guilt.  The dose wasn’t high enough to be harmful, but Cas would be puking his guts up for the next half hour, easy.  It would give Dean more than enough time to get upstairs and help Jo get the prototype down to the garage.

“Chardonnay and two fingers of bourbon, neat,” Dean told the bartender.

“Coming right up.”

The wine appeared first, and Dean discreetly dropped the tablet in the glass, giving the liquid a swirl to help it dissolve faster.  Across the room Cas chatted with a guy who looked like a televangelist with his smarmy, thousand-watt grin and perfectly coiffed hair.  There was another man with them, with dark hair and the face of a politician, but Dean couldn’t make out much more than that.  He couldn’t see Cas’ face either, but his shoulders were tense, so Dean doubted he was enjoying the conversation all that much.  The urge to go and rescue Cas was strong, and Dean had to forcibly squash that protective instinct that kept popping up where Cas was concerned.  He was getting ready to drug the guy; what right did he have to be protective?

“Bourbon, neat,” said the bartender behind him.

Dean snatched the glass and moved to rejoin Cas, but found his way blocked by a familiar and unwelcome face.  His blood pressure spiked immediately.

“You’re a creature of habit, Dean Winchester,” the woman said, her English accent sounding far more cultured than Crowley’s ever could.  It still grated.

“Bela.  It can literally never be too long.”

“Oh, now, don’t be like that.  I got that Fragonard, fair and square.”

_ “Did you just say ‘Bela?’” _ Bobby demanded.  _  “As in Bela Talbot?” _

“You nearly got me arrested.”

“Your brother got my client arrested.”  She took Dean’s drink from his hand and downed it.  “I consider us even.  How is Sam, by the way?  He’s usually the one all dolled up and schmoozing.  Not that you don’t look absolutely delicious.”

“What do you know about Sam?” Dean said, fighting to keep his voice at an appropriate volume.  His fist tightened around the wine glass to keep from wrapping it around her elegant neck.

Bela smiled, a sly curl of her crimson lips.  She stepped closer, smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his tux and whispered, “We never did have that angry sex, did we?”

Dean shuddered.  

“But I’ll let you get back to your date.  Say hi to Sam for me.”

Dean met Cas’ curious gaze over Bela’s shoulder as she walked away, and the glass shattered in his hand.  He looked down, watched the wine sting the gash in the palm of his hand. Blood dripped all over the floor.  He’d only brought one tablet, and now Cas was making his way toward him, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern.  

Dean wanted to scream.  He’d blown it, and that smug bitch knew something.  He didn’t know how or what, but she did, and the surge of wrath and guilt that hit him left him breathless.  She always knew the right buttons to push, and every time they crossed paths it wound up being a massive cluster fuck.

“Bela Talbot is here,” Dean confirmed.  

Bobby swore colorfully, and Dean couldn’t have said it better himself.

_ “Can I hurt her this time?  Please?”  _ Jo said.

_ “I just lost video.” _

“ _ What? _ ” Bobby said.  

“ _ I’m still in the system, I just don’t have video anymore.” _

“ _ My gut’s tellin’ me this is gonna go sideways real fast.  I’ll get you a distraction, Dean.  You ditch the doc and get to Jo asap.  Get us the video back, Charlie.  I don’t like the idea of y’all flyin’ blind up there.” _

Dean didn’t either.  There were too many players on this field already, too many unknown variables, and Cas was closing in fast.  If this didn’t happen now, it wasn’t going to happen at all.  If someone else got to the prototype first, they’d never retrieve it in time.  If Crowley didn’t get what he wanted when he wanted it, Sam would die.  

There were too many fucking ifs.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Dean walked away, and Castiel admired the view.  Dean was obscenely attractive, and, as predicted, everybody loved him. With the exception of Zachariah.  He tried not to be so pleased with the way the evening was going, or take joy from the disgust and irritation on Zachariah’s face, but was largely unsuccessful.  Castiel would pay for it later, but it was worth it.  It was very…different, having someone jump to his defense like Dean had done.  Nice.

“Dr. Milton, I was just bragging about you.”

Castiel turned to find his boss, Bartholomew Young, a career CEO who had only been with Sandover for five years, and another man with black hair, a sleazy grin, and a expensive suit.  Bartholomew was charismatic, and had a boy-next-door look going with his blond hair and blue eyes, but something about him always rubbed Castiel the wrong way.

“Mr. Young,” Castiel greeted, offering his hand.

“Please, considering all the money your breakthrough is going to make us, I think you can call me Bartholomew.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that.  He’d never considered his work in a financial light.  His work had never been about riches or fame. He’d done it to help people, to make the world an easier place to live in. But that didn’t seem to matter; Bartholomew kept right on talking.

“Allow me to introduce to you the Secretary of the Navy, Dick Roman.  He is very interested to hear more about your research.”

“Indeed I am, Dr. Milton,” Roman said, his voice too loud, his smile too big, his words over-enunciated.  Obnoxious.  “The Navy is alway eager to see what the private sector’s best minds are producing, and your work with low-energy nuclear reactions is at the top of our list.  There’s not much we wouldn’t do to get our hands on it.”

Bartholomew laughed and clapped Roman on the shoulder.  “Now, Dick, let’s leave the negotiations for the board room.”

Bartholomew called the Secretary of the Navy by his given name.  This was not a good thing.

“You’re going to sell my research to the Navy?”

“If I have my way, Dr. Milton,” Roman said, his expression turning predatory.  “And I usually do.”

Caustic and potentially problematic words threatened to erupt, and it would be 2011 all over again.  He needed an out.  Now.   Before he insulted the Secretary of the Navy to his face.

This would be easier with Dean at his side.  He had a knack for filling in the blank spaces, smoothing over the rough patches.  For keeping a conversation on track, or ending it.  That glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, either.  

Castiel looked over his shoulder toward the bar in time to witness a striking young woman in a slinky black dress take Dean’s drink from him and swallow it in one gulp.  Dean blanched, his whole body tense as she leaned in and whispered something in his ear.  She looked pleased with herself when she walked away, red lips curling in a smug smile.

It took Castiel a moment to realize she was smiling at  _ him _ .

Confused, both by what he’d seen and the little flare of jealousy it inspired, Castiel met Dean’s gaze.  He heard the glass shatter before he realized Dean had crushed it in his hand, and that blood was gushing onto the floor.

“What do you say to that, Dr. Milton?” Dick Roman said.

Castiel had no idea what he was talking about.  Neither did he care.

“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary.  My date is bleeding.”

Bartholomew called for him as he walked away, but Castiel focused on Dean, who had disappeared into the crowd.  He found the mess of blood, wine, and broken glass not far from the bar.  A member of the wait staff was cleaning it up, but there was no sign of Dean.

Something else was going on, something he’d missed.  Dean knew that woman, Castiel was certain.  He had a hard time imagining a stranger rattling Dean’s cool demeanor.  But where was he?

“Did you see where he went?  The man who broke the glass?” he asked the waitress.

She nodded toward the back of the room.  “Went off that way in a hurry.  Probably in the bathroom cleaning up.”

That made sense.  “Thank you.”

Suddenly there was a commotion behind him, near the entrance.  A scruffy, older man in jeans and a worn out hat, obviously drunk, shouted at the top of his lungs, declaring that libraries were supposed to be open to the public and demanding entrance.  Security converged from all points around the atrium.  The crowd parted for the guard that passed right by Castiel, allowing Castiel to see Dean beyond the large man.  Dean was the only one not looking toward the uproar.

Castiel hurried after him, that nagging feeling hard on his heels.  Something was off, and it drove nuts that he couldn’t put his finger on it.  He worried about Dean.  That woman had upset him, and there was a decent amount of blood on the floor.  He may require medical attention.

“Dean,” Castiel called when he was a few steps behind him.

Dean stopped and turned, but seemed reluctant, his entire demeanor on edge, agitated.  Completely, one hundred percent the exact opposite of everything Castiel had come to expect from the other man.  His hand was still dripping blood onto the floor.

“You’re hurt.”

Castiel watched in fascination as Dean deliberately relaxed his posture.  He even tried to slap on that devil-may-care grin, but his heart wasn’t in it.  Castiel had seen it enough times to know the difference.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, waving Castiel off.  “Go on back to the party.  I’ll only be a minute.”

“That’s not just a scratch, Dean,” Castiel said, taking him by the wrist and opening his hand.  The gash was deep and ragged through the center of his palm.  It looked painful.  “This will need stitches.  We should go to the hospital.”

“I don’t do hospitals.”

“Dean—”

“Cas, I’m fine.  Really.”

“Will you at least come up to my lab?” Castiel said, swallowing a sigh of frustration.   “I have a first aid kit there.  I believe there may even be some liquid stitches.”

Dean was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed and his jaw set.  He sighed.  “Alright.”

He sounded…sad.  Resigned.

Castiel grabbed a thick cloth napkin off the refreshments table and tied it snugly around Dean’s hand, then led him to the stairs.  Dean followed silently, a step behind him and off to the side, their dress shoes making harsh hollow sounds in the empty stairwell.  Up three flights they trudged, each step ratcheting up the tension between them until the air was thick with it.  It took every ounce of self-control not to ask Dean about the woman.  Just because Castiel was curious, didn’t mean he deserved to intrude.  Dean was obviously rattled, and Castiel didn’t want to exacerbate the situation by prying.  He’d never considered himself nosy or jealous before, and he wasn’t about to start.

But God did he want to ask.  After what happened with Ezekiel… Castiel wanted to trust Dean, he really did, but how he responded to that woman was sending up all sorts of red flags. Castiel had learned the hard way not to ignore those flags.

It seemed like an eternity before they reached the fourth floor. 

Castiel slid his hand in his pocket, and found nothing but a tiny ball of lint.  He distinctly recalled putting the card on the left, but he patted down the rest of his pocketsto be safe.

“My keycard is gone.”

“Cas—”

He looked at Dean, then at the swipe pad with its little green light.  But…the light shouldn’t be green.  It should be red.  “The door is unlocked.”

Dean became instantly alert, but there was a calmness about him, too, like a soldier before he goes into battle.  He gripped Castiel’s arm, forced Castiel to look him in the eye.  “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I need you to trust me.”

“What’s going on?” Castiel demanded, confused and alarmed by Dean’s intensity.

“I’m serious, Cas.  Just for five minutes.  Trust me to keep you safe.”

“Keep me  _ safe _ ?  Dean—”

“Please.”

Castiel froze.  Too much was happening, too many puzzle pieces trying to fit into place.  Everything about the last two days was weird, Dean’s urgency most of all.  And over an unlocked door?  But Dean’s eyes, too green in the fluorescent light, begged Castiel to trust him even more than his words.  He meant it.  He believed Castiel was in danger.

“Okay.”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief and released Castiel’s arm.  “Jo, we might have company up here.  Wait for the all clear, copy?”

_ Who the hell was Jo? _

Dean looked Castiel in the eye again, rock steady and with zero trace of the apprehension Castiel felt.  “Stay close; do what I tell you, when I tell you.”

Castiel nodded, feeling rather dumb.  Two separate doctorates, and he couldn’t figure out what was going on for the life of him.  

Careful not to make any noise, Dean opened the door and slipped into the corridor.  Castiel followed without a word.  It wasn’t long before he realized they were heading towards his lab.  _  Dean was leading him to his lab. _

When they rounded the final corner, Dean halted, going from tense to aggressive in about two-point-five seconds. 

Castiel nearly plowed into him.  Then he noticed the priest at the lab door, hunched over a handheld device connected to the security pad by a thin wire.  There was barely ten feet between them.

“So, are you O’Malley or Reynaud?” Dean said, stalking forward a couple of steps.

The man’s condescending smile was extra bright against his dark skin.  He set the device down and squared up with Dean.  “That’s Father Reynaud to you, Winchester.”

“Who hired you?”

Castiel was more lost than ever.

“Oh, Kubrick and I, we’re doin’ this one for the fun of it,” the priest said, taking a couple of his own steps forward.  “When we heard the pickle little Sammy got himself in — figured we’d lend a hand.”

“You’re a real sonofabitch, you know that, Gordon?”

“Let’s not bring the mothers into it.”

Dean lashed out so fast and so hard, Castiel almost didn’t see what happened.  In the blink of an eye, he’d closed the gap between them, driving his fist into the priest’s throat, then his sternum, with such force that he flew backward.  Gordon scrambled to his feet while Dean stalked forward, one hand clutching at his collar while he heaved deep labored breaths.  The gasping turned into a dark chuckle, and Gordon threw himself at Dean, catching him around the middle and tackling him into the wall.

He got a couple of good hits in on Dean’s ribs before Dean broke free.  They traded a few lazy blows, Castiel flinching every time Gordon made contact, even if Dean seemed unfazed.  They were testing each other, looking for chinks in the armor.  

Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off of Dean.  He moved with the the grace and fluidity of a dancer, making it all look effortless.  The fight wasn’t like a bar brawl, or even one of those caged events Gabriel loved so much.  There was an art to it, something elegant.  Dean was breathtaking.

Then, lightning quick, Dean made his move.  In a blur of limbs, Gordon was on his knees with a broken arm and a bloody nose.  He was still having trouble breathing, the task made all the more difficult by the damage to his nose, but the glare he turned on Dean was anything but defeated.  It was downright feral, with a side of self-satisfied.

“You’re a goddamn animal, Winchester,” Gordon wheezed.  “Can’t never change those stripes.”

Dean punched him in the face, and Gordon collapsed in a heap.

Just like that, it was over.  Castiel watched Dean catch his breath, his feet rooted to the spot.  He should be freaking out, terrified.  He should be calling the police, or an ambulance at least, but all he was concerned about was Dean.  

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Dean said, turning slowly away from Gordon’s unconscious form.  “Just— Cas!”

Strong fingers gripped Castiel’s hair jerked his head backward, and cool steel pressed against his neck.  He grunted in pain, his scalp stinging and his back bowed.

“Easy there, Doc,” a lilting voice sing-songed in his ear.  It was deceptively sweet, like poisoned syrup, and Castiel didn’t doubt for a moment this woman would happily slit his throat.  

Dean looked murderous.  “If you hurt him, I will tear your arms off and beat you with them.”

“Mmm, keep talkin’ dirty to me, Dean,” she said, shimmying against Castiel’s back.  “You know it gets me all hot and bothered.”

How does Dean know all these people?  

“You are so fucked up.”

“Sticks and stones, baby.  Sticks and stones.  Now, I am on a bit of a schedule, so you’re going to help me or I’m going to fillet the good doctor here.”

Dean took a threatening step forward, and the woman pressed the blade more firmly against Castiel’s jugular.  He hissed as it sliced through the top layer of skin, leaving a single drop of blood to trickle down his neck.

“Dammit, Meg!”

“Ah-ah,” she said.  “As much as I love a good evisceration, I don’t want to hurt this sexy thing any more than you want me to.  My father promised an extra reward for the whole package.”

Castiel struggled to process this.  Then he looked up.

Hanging upside down from the air vent directly above them was a young blond woman who looked very familiar and extremely pleased with herself.  She waved and dropped him a wink, showing him a small hand-held taser.

This was nuts.

Castiel looked at Dean, who gave him a surreptitious nod.

No, this was _ insane _ .

It was also going to hurt like hell.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel drove his elbow back into her stomach.  Meg grunted with the force of the blow, the wind knocked out of her, and stumbled backward, losing her grip ever so slightly on the knife.  Castiel moved quickly, pulling her arm away from his neck and spinning underneath it.  Her hand clutched at his hair for leverage.  He kept going, his momentum stronger than her grip on his scalp, his direction forcing her to either let go or fall over.

She chose to let go, and as soon as she did, the girl hanging from the ceiling stuck the taser on the side of her neck.  Castiel watched as the brunette seized then collapsed on the floor.  He rubbed the back of his head, which hurt as much on the inside as it did the outside from trying to wrap his brain around the last ten minutes of his life.

He felt like he’d stepped into a Ludlum novel.  Was this was what shock felt like?

The blonde executed some kind of gymnastics move and landed on her feet next to him, lithe as a cat, her cheeks flushed with excitement.  She was dressed identically to the waitstaff from the gala he’d all but forgotten, but he recognized her from somewhere else, too.

“You’re one of my interns,” he said.

“Good eye, Doc,” she replied, patting his cheek.  “Gold star.”

Castiel turned to Dean, whose expression was completely unreadable. A wall was coming up between them, brick by brick and sadness flooded in, drowning out everything else — his fear, his confusion, his anger.  It took his breath away.  

They continued to stare at each other while the blonde walked past both of them and opened the lab door with a keycard.   _ Castiel’s keycard _ .  All the pieces clicked together.  

Dean was a thief.

Castiel witnessed the exact moment Dean realized he knew, something like pain flashing across his expression before morphing into something hard.

The lab door clicked open.

“Clock’s tickin’,” the blonde said.

Cas flinched, her words driving the point home.

“Dean!” she said, snapping her fingers.  “Let’s go.”

Dean flinched, too.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” 

Dean turned and entered the lab.  Castiel followed on autopilot, catching the door just before it closed.  She headed straight for the nearest computer, plopping down in the roller chair and plugging some strange device into a USB port.  Dean went for the prototype, Castiel’s cold fusion prototype, and started packing it up for transport.

“We hit a couple of Meg- and Gordon-shaped bumps, but we’re in, Bobby,” the blonde said.

There was a pause, then Dean said:  “He’s fine.  Safe as houses.”

Another pause.

“I can tase him?” she suggested, a little too cheerfully.

Dean glared at her.  “No.”

“Have it your way,” she replied, rolling her eyes.  “But you’re going soft, Winchester.”

“Tell that to Gordon’s face.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel said, interrupting their strange conversation. He pointed to the prototype.  “How do you even know about that?”

“This isn’t what it looks like, Cas,” Dean said, his tone resigned.

“Really?” he said, his voice rising.  “Because it looks like you’re stealing my life’s work!”

“I offered to tase him.”

“Nobody’s tasing anyone, Jo,” Dean snapped.  “Get over it.”

“And what did that woman mean, the whole package?” Cas continued,  taking couple of steps closer.  “And the priest said—”

“Not actually a priest,” Jo pointed out.

“What the fuck is happening?” Castiel shouted, and his voice thundered in the spacious lab.  He rarely lost his temper, but they were both acting like they weren’t in the middle of ruining his life.  It was infuriating, and far more welcome than the sorrow Castiel felt at Dean’s betrayal.  Or the embarrassment for having been foolish enough to trust him.

Dean sighed tiredly and turned to face him. Castiel lost it.  Catching Dean off guard, he grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the nearest table, pinning him to the worktop with his hips.  Dean braced for impact, but didn’t make a single move to defend himself or to get Castiel off of him.  He looked like he expected Castiel to hit him, eyes sad and jaw set.  It occurred to Castiel that Dean might just let him.

But Castiel didn’t hit him.  He held him in place, eyes locked, fists balled up in his jacket, his whole body vibrating with rage.

“Hey!” Jo called, jumping out of her seat.

Dean held a hand up, stopping her in her tracks.  

“I trusted you,” Cas whispered, the words harsh in his throat, like he’d swallowed a handful of tacks.

By the look on Dean’s face, he may as well have delivered a physical blow.

“I know, and I’m gonna have to live with that,” Dean said, voice tight.  “But not all of it was a lie.”

“It doesn’t matter.  One lie is too many.”

Dean didn’t look away.  “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice!”

“I did what I had to do!” Dean bellowed, pushing back against Castiel’s fists.  “Just like I always do.” 

Something stilled inside Castiel, a quiet voice whispering that not everything was as it seemed, and a little bit of that anger turned into confusion.

_ Some things just need doin’, Cas. _

But how could  _ this  _ possibly be one of those things?

“It’s not like I could have just walked up to you and said, ‘Hey, so this guy kidnapped my brother and if I don’t give him your invention he’ll kill him.  Mind if I borrow it for the weekend?’  I’m sure that would have been awesome.”

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Dean, what are you doing?” Jo whispered.

“Coming clean.”

Castiel stepped away, the quiet voice becoming louder and more insistent.  He released Dean and straightened his own suit with numb fingers, like he could smooth the turbulence of his mind with mundane gestures.  “Why?”

Dean sorted himself out, too, and when he met Castiel’s gaze again, it was different.  Castiel was no longer looking at the human weapon who beat a priest into unconsciousness, or the suave gentleman who’d socialized with D.C.’s elite like the best of them.  Not anymore. He was looking at the guy who’d sat across Castiel yesterday in jeans and flannel, telling him how he couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. 

“Because this job, this is my blurry line.”

Castiel breathed deeply, calmed his mind.  He silenced the voice that asked why he couldn’t walk away from Dean, go for security or call the police, because he didn’t have an answer.   It said to him that he should be afraid, but he wasn’t.  Not even a little.  Angry and confused, yes.  Frightened, no.  Not when he remembered Dean begging him to trust that he’d keep him safe.

“You have my attention.”

The tension in Dean’s shoulders eased.  He looked more uncertain than anything, which was strange on Dean’s perpetually confident face.  Twice he started to speak before Castiel realized how much more comfortable the other man was communicating with his fists than his mouth.  “I’ve hurt a lot of people, Cas.  In ways you can’t even imagine.  I’m more than willing to spend the rest of my life making it up, but Sam doesn’t deserve to pay for my mistakes, and neither do you.”

“You really have a brother called Sam?”

Dean nodded.  

“I don’t understand.”

“This guy I used to work for, Crowley, he’s taken him hostage, and if I don’t bring him your research by tomorrow, he’ll kill him.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“An excellent question, Doc,” Jo chimed in, her expression livid.  “It’s not like we actually need permission.”

“Because you deserve to know,” Dean said, ignoring Jo.  “Because you’re a good man, and I know I fucked up, but I’m trusting you now to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“Let me take it, and I will swear on anything you want me to swear on that I will bring it back.”

Cas looked at him like he’d lost his mind.  Maybe he had.  “Let you take it?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes.”

“You used my keycard to access the lab, and my terminal to get the research data — assuming that’s what your friend was doing.  I will go to jail for this.  At the very least, I’ll lose my job.  Especially after the conversation I just had with the Secretary of the Navy.”

“To be fair,” Jo said, “you’re supposed to be downstairs in the bathroom puking your guts out right now.  With an alibi.”

“I know,” Dean said, “but we want to bring it back.”

Castiel tugged at his tie.  His head started to ache, and it seemed like the more information Dean gave him the less sense things made.

“This thing you made, Cas, it’s gonna change the world.  For the better.  Not only do we not want it, we don’t want Crowley to have it either.  The only thing I want is my brother and a clear conscience.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Jo said, stepping up.  She looked at Dean like she wanted to punch him in the face before turning keen brown eyes on Castiel.  “But you should know that while we’re not the only people trying to steal it, we’re definitely the nicest.”

Castiel thought of the two unconscious bodies in the hall, of Meg, who Castiel still had little doubt would gleefully end his life if he became a liability.  “The whole package,” he said, recalling her words.  She’d meant to take him, too.  Now that was a scary thought.  “Am I in danger?”

Jo shrugged.  “Lucifer is totally bananas.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but Castiel suspected he and Jo were close, despite the frostiness between them at the moment.  “Meg’s employer,” Dean clarified.  “It’s possible that if he doesn’t get the research he’ll just go for you.  Why fight over the eggs when you can have the goose?”

“Neither Meg or Gordon work alone, either,” Jo continued.

“And Bela’s here,” Dean growled, his voice oozing with undisguised hatred.

“The woman in the black dress.”

“We have a long history of jamming each other up.”

The knot that had twisted in Castiel’s chest the moment he saw that woman all over Dean loosened.  He refused to examine this.

In light of what he’d just learned, it seemed there were only two real options open to Castiel.  One left a lot to chance but, if he was convincing enough, could allow him to wash his hands of the whole thing.  The other was insane, and illegal, but maybe also right.

“If this Crowley individual had Anna and I came to you for help, would you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Even if you didn’t know me?”

“Even if I didn’t know you.”

Castiel believed him.  He turned to Jo.  “You should scrub the laptop in my office, as well.  My final lab report is on it.”  

“Copy that,” she said, and disappeared.

He and Dean were alone again, and the roiling doubt and indecision that had tormented him for weeks stilled.  He retrieved the first aid kit from above the emergency eyewash station and began cleaning the wound on Dean’s hand.  Dean let him, surprisingly, but Castiel felt his eyes tracking every movement.  Dried blood pulled at the wound when he unwrapped the napkin from Dean’s hand, but if it hurt, he didn’t let on.

“This will sting,” Castiel said, flipping open the lid on a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and dumping it in Dean’s hand.  There was no gentler way to go about it.

Dean’s face pinched, but he remained silent.

“How are we getting it out of the building?”

“Oh, no,” Dean said.  “You’re not coming with us.  It’s too dangerous.  Go back to the party and salvage what’s left of your alibi.”

“If these people are as determined to get their hands on my work as you seem to think they are, I believe my chances of survival are significantly higher with you than on my own.”

They fell silent as Castiel finished cleaning the wound with a wad of sterile gauze.  The liquid stitches were very much like super glue, which made them easy to apply, even to an area as high tension as a palm.  As long as Dean could avoid fighting for the next twenty-four hours it would heal fine.  Finished with his task, Castiel closed up the kit.

“This isn’t your problem to fix,” Dean said.

“You said to me yesterday that whatever happened next, you wanted it to be the right thing.  This is the right thing.  I’ll secure the prototype.  You should make sure Meg and Gordon don’t give us any more trouble.”

 

Castiel had expected more of a fight. 

It was a matter of a few minutes for Castiel to secure the prototype and meet Dean at the elevator down the hall.  He didn’t want to know what Dean had done with the unconscious forms of Meg and Gordon.  Jo arrived from the direction of Castiel’s office immediately afterward.  She handed Dean a flash drive, which he put in his pocket, and Castiel’s heart twinged.  All of his research was on that memory stick, and just because he’d agreed to this didn’t mean it made the prospect of possibly sacrificing thirty years of work easy.

He shook it off.

Castiel was about to repeat his question regarding Dean’s exit strategy when he pried the elevator doors open with his bare hands.  He grunted with the effort, biceps straining against his jacket.  Castiel was impressed.

Until he realized what this meant.

“You’re joking.”

Jo looked at him like he’d insulted her mother.  “You got a better idea?”

Castiel did not.

“That’s what I thought.”  She walked back to the air duct she’d come out of earlier, jumped, caught the edge and pulled herself up head-and-shoulders into the vent.  When she came back down, she had a black backpack in hand.  She dumped the contents on the floor at Castiel’s feet.  “We will need these, though.”

Ropes and pulleys and a few other bits and bobs.  Castiel wasn’t afraid of heights, but even a basic knowledge of physics was enough to make him nervous about the descent.  He could imagine the consequences all too vividly should something go wrong.

“What do you mean?” Dean said, sounding irritated.  “Can’t you just wipe it from there?”

“The servers are two floors up,” Jo said.  After a pause, she huffed.  “All right, I’ll go.  This is a two-man rig anyway.”

“How will you get out?” Dean asked.

Jo rolled her eyes.  “Give me some credit, Winchester.  I’m the only one of us that’s never been caught.”

Dean rolled his eyes at her back.  He knelt next to the prototype and grabbed a bundle of rope.  “Help me make a harness for this.”

The case wasn’t big, which was as Castiel had intended.  He’d wanted to create something compact, that could easily be adapted to fit any situation, and it was much easier to make a small thing on a larger scale than to try and shrink something enormous.  As a result, the reactor was only about two feet squared, its case only eight inches deep.  It weighed forty pounds, and most of it was water.

Dean set up the pulleys in the shaft, one on the cable for them, and one connected to an L-shaped bracket made of steel which Dean mounted to the shaft wall above the door with high powered magnets.  He fed the rope through what looked like some kind of hand brake before making a harness out of the end and stepping into it.  The long end of the rope got dropped down the shaft.

There was a lot of rope.

“You ready?” Dean said.

Castiel nodded, but something about his expression must has suggested otherwise.  Dean chuckled.

“Just hold on, and close your eyes if you have to.  We’ll bring the case down behind us once we get the elevator door opened.”

“What am I supposed to hold onto?”

Dean smiled.  “Me.”

Castiel swallowed hard and tugged on his tie.  A blush creeped up his neck.  “How?”

Dean spread his arms wide, like he was expecting a hug.  “Or you can get on my back, if you prefer, but it will be harder for you to get off and open the door.  Unless you want to go back to the party.”

Dean was giving him an out, and he appreciated it, but he was already invested in this.  He met Dean’s challenging gaze head-on.  “If you think it will be easiest from the front, that’s what we’ll do.”

“All right, then.”  Dean tested his grip on the hand brake, then turned his back to the shaft and let the harness take some of his weight.  “Put one arm over my shoulder and the other under.  It’ll be easier for me to hold you.”

Taking a deep breath, Castiel complied.  Dean was warm and solid beneath him, and the arm he wrapped around Castiel’s waist was strong and secure.  Castiel’s stomach lurched when they swung backward into the shaft, but Dean squeezed him and tangled their legs together. It was incredibly intimate, and more terrifying than the prospect of a five story plunge down an elevator shaft.  Castiel’s heart pounded in his ears.

“You gotta keep breathing, or you’ll get vertigo.”

Castiel inhaled deeply, the clean, woodsy scent of Dean’s skin unexpectedly relaxing, and nodded.

Dean counted down from three and released the brake.  The initial plunge left his stomach in his throat, but five stories went by quickly with the full force of gravity in effect.  Castiel barely had time to recover his breath before Dean was applying gentle pressure to the brake, using the friction to control their speed so that coming to a full stop would not dislocate Castiel from Dean’s grasp, or Dean’s shoulder from its socket.   

It was still jarring though, and Cas was glad to be tangled up in Dean.

“You good?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll swing you over to the door.”

Castiel loosed his grip on Dean’s neck and looked over his shoulder.  Dean must have done this before; they were in the perfect position.

It took a couple of tries, but eventually they gained enough momentum for Castiel to step out of Dean’s grasp and onto the narrow ledge of the door.  There was nt much space for a foothold, but pressed flat against the cool metal there was just enough for his dress shoes to grip.

“The first couple inches are a bitch, but then it’ll slide open pretty easy.”

This was completely accurate, and Castiel didn’t think he’d ever been happier to be inside a parking garage.  He did a quick check of their surroundings to make sure they were alone.  There was no way he could explain this if they were found.

Dean was lowering the prototype when Cas came back.  It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes, but it felt like an eternity.  They were exposed, and each second cranked up the tension.  

Finally, it was close enough for Cas to grab the handle and pull it to him.  Dean sliced the rope with a small knife that materialized in his hand, allowing Castiel to set it on the ground.  

He reached for Dean’s outstretched hand and pulled him to the edge.  He stepped smoothly into the garage, like he hadn’t just been dangling above three stories of sub-basement.  Castiel envied Dean’s calm; he felt like a tightly wound guitar string.  A moment’s work had the harness undone and the ropes tossed into the shaft.  Castiel closed the elevator doors.

Dean picked up the prototype in one hand and steered Castiel toward the Impala  with the other.  They were almost home free.

The car was parked ten or so spaces further up from the elevator on the other side of a large SUV, and when they came around the corner, Dean let loose a string of epithets so colorful a Drill Sergeant would have blushed.  All four of the Impala’s tires were slashed.

“Who does that to a man’s car!” he finished.  

“You really are a creature of habit, Dean.  It’s a little pathetic.”

Castiel and Dean spun around in tandem.  It was Bela, still in her evening gown, still looking smug.  She had a pistol aimed at Dean’s chest.  

“Sonofabitch,” Dean swore.

“I am sorry about Sam.  This isn’t personal.”

“Just business, right?”

“Just business.”

“If Sam dies, you know I’ll be coming after you next?”

“Set the case down, step away, and we can all live to fight another day.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Dean, but you know very well that I will.  A couple hundred million dollars is enough to talk a girl into just about anything.”

Castiel’s heart stuttered.   _ A couple hundred million dollars _ ?

“You better hope you kill me because it’s gonna take more than one shot from that little peashooter to take me down.”

“Then I should put it where it will do the most damage.”

Bela swung the pistol around to aim at Castiel and pulled the trigger.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Castiel’s head throbbed and his ears rang. Dean was on top of him, pressing him into the cold concrete, making it difficult to draw breath.  The harsh fluorescent lights above him spun, and he squeezed his eyes shut again against the swell of nausea.  Everything felt fuzzy and disjointed.

Then Dean groaned, and it all came back in a rush, leaving his head in greater pain than before.

Bela, the gun, Dean tackling him to the ground.

“Dean?” Castiel said.

Dean groaned again and tried to get up, but his arm collapsed under his own weight.  “Sonofa—”

It was a combined effort to get Dean off of him, and it was the panic from realizing that Castiel’s chest was damp with Dean’s blood that gave his shocked limbs the strength to do it.  Dean flopped back onto the concrete with a grimace.  Castiel fought to control his breathing because God was there a lot of blood.

He had no idea what to do, and Dean was already struggling to get up, cursing the whole time.

And the prototype was gone.

He needed to do something, with his hands, right now, before he totally lost it.

Ripping his jacket off, Castiel forced Dean back onto the floor, padding both sides of the bullet wound with the thick fabric. The small caliber bullet had passed through the flesh of his right shoulder and lodged in the SUV behind them.  It was a miracle that either of them were alive.  Bleeding and concussed, yes.  Dead, no.

“Stop moving.”

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean hissed.  “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

That was a distressing thought.

“That doesn’t make staunching the flow of blood any less important.”

Dean rolled his eyes, then dug his keys out of his trouser pocket, grimacing the whole time.  “There’s a medical kit in the trunk.”

He was so dizzy when he stood he nearly fell over, prompting a concerned query from Dean.  Castiel waved him off.  He was definitely concussed.  Gingerly he explored the back of his head with his fingers.  There was a lump, but no blood.  He must have cracked his head on the concrete when Dean tackled him.

It was painful, but it beat being dead.

Then he saw it, a strange piece of molded plastic on the floor near the rear of the Impala.  He’d almost stepped on it.  When he picked it up he heard voices coming from it, distant and distorted, like an old radio playing in the next room.  He put it in his ear.

“ _ Goddammit, Dean, you better not be— _ ”  The voice was sandpapery and alarmed.

“Hello,” Castiel said, for lack of anything better to say.

The huff sounded odd set so deeply in his ear.  It was like being on a phone, but not.  It explained all the strange pauses in Dean and Jo’s conversations, too.

_ “Doctor Milton, I hope.” _

“Yes.”

_ “Where the fuck is Dean?”   _ That was definitely Jo.

“ _ Is he okay?” _  Another female voice, high and anxious.  “ _ I still don’t have video in the garage—”  _

“Bela shot him.” Castiel said, the reality of the situation sinking in.  Dean had taken a bullet for him.  Without even thinking about it.

There was a chorus of shouted curses from the ear bud.  Mostly from the women.

Castiel fumbled with the keys for a moment before opening the trunk.  Inside was a large military style duffel bag and a clear plastic tackle box.  He took the box and knelt next to Dean, who had propped himself up against the wheel of the SUV.  He’d already worked his own jacket off his shoulder and was fighting with the buttons on his shirt. 

“ _ Zip it! _ ” the male voice said.  Jo and the other voice silenced immediately.  “ _ Two things, Doc: is Dean alive, and did she get it?” _

“Yes, and unfortunately yes.  However, at the moment, that is the least of our concerns.  Dean’s car has been disabled, and I’m surprised we haven’t been discovered already.”

In the distance, sirens wailed.  

Dean stopped fighting with his shirt and plucked the device out of Castiel’s ear.

“Guys, I’m fine.”  There was a slight pause where Dean fought off a smile despite everything.  “What’s the plan, Bobby?”

Castiel took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.  His first-aid qualifications were up to date; they had to be for him to be in charge of the lab.  True, gunshot wounds weren’t something one typically prepared for in a laboratory environment, but a little common sense went a long way and making sure Dean wasn’t going to bleed to death was currently at the top of his list of priorities. 

He batted Dean’s hands away and ripped the shirt open, sending buttons flying, then stuck wads of gauze on both sides of the wound.  He leaned Dean forward and wrapped an elasticized bandage around his torso and shoulder.  Dean made cranky faces at him the whole time, but didn’t fight him.

“Hey.”

Jo materialized at Castiel’s side without warning, and he almost fell over in surprise. 

“Can you walk?”

Dean glared.  

“Good.” Jo packed up the medical kit and bloody garments and grabbed the duffel out of the trunk.  “Get him up.  The cops are closing in and Charlie’s on her way.  Let’s go, let’s go!”

Castiel pulled Dean up.  They were both a little wobbly with head wounds and blood loss, but managed to keep their feet.  Their eyes locked, Dean’s gaze penetrating and sure, quieting the panicky voices in Castiel’s head.

“Last chance to back out, Cas.”

He didn’t even have to think about it this time.

“And let that woman get away with my work?”

Dean looked pleased.  “That’s what I figured.”

“Y’all can stare at each other all you want when we get to the van.  Jesus,” Jo snapped.

@@

 

It had been a while since Dean was in this much pain.  He saw more than his share of fist fights and bruises in this line of work, and it wasn’t his first gunshot wound, but this sucked ass.  The hole in his shoulder was on fire, the raw edges of flesh rubbing against each other with every movement.  It was hard to breathe through the pain, like his lungs didn’t have quite enough space to expand, and he distantly wondered if he was going into shock.  It didn’t help that the wound had bled so much either; already the bandages Cas had applied were soaking through.  His limbs felt heavy and sluggish as he and Cas followed Jo through the garage.  

Cas kept touching his back every couple of steps, like he needed to remind himself that Dean was alive and kicking.  After everything that had happened in the last hour, Dean couldn’t believe Cas was still around, let alone concerned for Dean’s well-being.  It made Dean’s heart hurt.  

Charlie met them at the gate, the black Dodge cargo van screeching to a halt on the other side of the barrier arm.  Jo slid the side door open and tossed the crap in her arms inside, then snapped her fingers at them.

The sirens were close enough to make his ears itch.  Five-oh on their tail was the last thing they needed.

Charlie squeaked at the sight of him covered in blood, her fists white-knuckling the steering wheel.  The last time he’d come back bloody she’d lost her lunch, which would be unfortunate considering she was their getaway driver.

Cas climbed in first and pulled Dean in behind him.  Jo slammed the door shut and banged her hand against the rear quarter panel, giving Charlie the go-ahead to vamoose.  Charlie gunned it, and Dean was grateful to be on the floor propped against a small bank of servers.  He’d have gone flying otherwise, which would have sucked epically.

The van was Charlie’s pride and joy, a portable tech unit, fully functional and equipped with all the doo-dads a computer geek could dream of.  Dean didn’t know what half the crap in there was, but there wasn’t much Charlie couldn’t do from inside this van.  

“Jo—” Cas started, his brow furrowed.

“She’s got other shit to take care of,” Dean said, but did not elaborate.  

He had something else to take care of, too.  His phone was in his right trouser pocket, and he was swearing by the time he dug it out.  Sam was at the top of his speed dial.  Crowley had turned Sam’s phone off, but he had to have someone monitoring it.  How else was Dean supposed to contact him once he’d done the job to arrange the exchange?  It took four tries before Crowley answered.

_ “Dean—” _

“Did you send her?”

“ _ What are you on about?” _

“Bela fucking Talbot is what I’m on about you arrogant—”

_ “I wouldn’t hire that twat to shine my shoes, the greedy whore.  Besides, if I was going to hire her, why would I go through the charade of securing your brother?” _

“Well someone did.”

_ “Let me guess.  She made you the moment you stepped in the building, allowed you to do all the heavy lifting, then nicked it from you just when you thought you were home free?” _

Dean had lost too much blood to be getting this pissed off.

_ “That sounds like a real problem, Dean.  Her buyer is probably already in town, making the chances you’ll recover it in time to save dear little Sammy decidedly not in your favor.” _

“Look,” Dean snapped, “do you want this thing or not?”

_ “Evidence suggests yes.” _

“Then pick up your god damned phone and make some calls.  Find out who her buyer is.”

_ “Why should I do your job for you?” _

“Because if you kill Sam over this, I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth and make what happened in Moscow look like a six-year-old’s birthday party.  Make some phone calls and we both get what we want.  Don’t make some phone calls and you’ll be wearing your insides on your outside.”

_ “I always loved seeing that vicious side of you.  Do you ever feel like it’s just a facade, this do-gooder kick you’re on?  Like if you run around playing Robin Hood for long enough you’ll be able to forget what a savage you are?  How much you like it?” _

Dean felt nauseous.  “Call me when you’ve got something useful to share.”

Cas was looking at him when he disconnected the line, those fucking laser beam eyes boring into him.  Dean felt exposed and worn down, like Cas could read Crowley’s words on his bones.  Cas’ life had been so fucking normal.  Maybe Crowley was right.  Even when Dean wasn’t trying, what he did best was tear things apart.

“You need a doctor.”

“What I really need is for you to tell me more about this cold fusion crap.  You said you talked to the Secretary of the Navy?”

Cas looked annoyed with Dean for changing the subject, but answered the question.  “Yes.  The Navy is planning to open negotiations with my employer.  They wish to acquire my research.”

“What would the Navy want it for?”

Cas shrugged.  “To power their vessels, I assume.  Properly adapted, the ocean would be the ultimate unlimited fuel supply.  They would literally be swimming in their power source.”

Okay, that made sense.  But if Dean knew anything about the military, and he liked to think that he did, then they had something else in mind.  And if the Navy had thought it, chances are anyone involved in arms dealing could have thought it, too.  “Can it be weaponized?”

Cas looked bewildered, then horrified.  “I hadn’t considered that before.  Fusion is a far more stable reaction than fission.  It’s meant to be a low, steady output, not an explosion.  I designed it to combat climate change and make energy more available and affordable.  But mankind has an exceptional track record when it comes to perverting things for violence.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“Will we get it back?” Cas asked as Charlie pulled the van into the hotel parking garage.  

He looked so damn trusting sitting across from Dean in his blood-soaked tux.  Dean thought he might prefer his anger.  At least that made sense.  Dean had lied to Cas, used him, and put his life in danger.  Why the fuck was he still here?  Why wasn’t he running as fast as he could in the opposite direction?

“Yeah, Cas.  We’ll get it back.”

 

@

 

It was fun getting into the hotel without raising the alarm, seeing as two of them were covered in blood and it was easily a four-star establishment.  Charlie was wound tight, babbling to Cas the whole way.  She asked him about a hundred more questions concerning his research, only half of which he was able to reply to because she wasn’t even stopping to breathe.  Cas looked dazed and overwhelmed, but Dean couldn’t tell if it was from the lump on the back of his head or the sheer magnificence of Charlie on a roll.

Bobby was waiting for them when they finally made it to the suite, mug in hand.  He’d discarded the hat at one point, and what was left of the hair on the top of his head was sticking up at wild angles.  He was so happy to see Dean, Dean thought he might actually hug him for a minute.  

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he said.

“You’re the drunk who thought he was at the library,” Cas said.

Charlie laughed.  She was already half out of her fake electric company jumpsuit and on her way to her work station.  She was still pale and jittery, but was about to plop down in the middle of her comfort zone and was cheerful at the prospect.  “I’d have liked to see that.”

“Cas, Bobby.  Bobby, Cas,” Dean said.

“Pleasure, Doc, but you’ll forgive me for bein’ a little pissed off you’re even here.”  He turned to Dean.  “What’re you thinkin’, boy, bringin’ a civilian into this?  Like we don’t got enough to worry about.”

“With all do respect, I may be the only one who can save Sam’s life.”

Well, that brought the room to a standstill.  Even Charlie stopped twitching and stared.

“How’d’ya figure?” Bobby grunted.

Cas tugged on his tie.  “If you give me some time and help me get the materials, I can make another one.  Or at least a very accurate replica.  If we lose the original, it will at least buy us some time.”

Dean was dumbstruck, the  _ we  _ and  _ us  _ instead of  _ you  _ was…a lot to take in.  Cas wasn’t just here to protect his work.  He gave a crap what happened to Sam.  He didn’t even know Sam.

Bobby took a pull of whatever he had in the mug and jerked a thumb down the hall toward the bathroom.  “Y’all get cleaned up.  We’ve got too much shit to do to be standing around flappin’ our gums.”

He hadn’t called anyone an idjit yet, so he couldn’t be too pissed off.

“And get me a list of what you’ll need, Doc.  Clock’s tickin’.”

 

@

 

Dean made his way to the bathroom, medical kit in hand.  His shirt was wasted, and the blood was starting to dry, making what was left of it stiff and revolting.  His shoulder still throbbed like a motherfucker, too, which made the prospect of suturing the wound even less appealing than usual.  He stopped off in his room for the whiskey.

The bathroom was as white as the rest of the place, which was unfortunate, but the counter was large, the mirror wide, and the lighting excellent.  He’d even come across some medical grade sutures a while back, so he wouldn’t be using dental floss, like last time.  He’d only been able to get his hands on mint flavored, and it burned for two days.

It took Dean a minute to work his shirt off—Cas had wrapped it to his body with the bandage—and he took extra care removing the wads of gauze.  It looked like the bleeding had finally slowed, and the last thing he needed was to rip the clots out and start it flowing all over again.  He couldn’t afford to lose anymore blood.

Stitching the holes in his body was going to be problematic.  Because of the location, he couldn’t reach the wound with his right hand without contorting in a way that was breathtakingly painful, and his left hand was not to be trusted with thread and needle.  Never mind he couldn’t even see the hole in his back, let alone touch it.

The door was open a crack, but Cas knocked anyway and poked his head in.  He’d lost his tie somewhere between the living room and the bathroom, and Dean wondered what he’d tug at without it.

“What’s up?” Dean said.  He sounded impatient, even to his own ears, but Cas didn’t bat an eye.  

“I thought you might like some help,” he replied, gesturing to Dean’s shoulder.

_ No  _ lingered on the tip of Dean’s tongue, a reflex.  Sam was usually his first stop for medical treatment, and without him Dean’s options were to ask Charlie, who was more likely to pass out than be useful, or Bobby which would be plain weird.  Not that it wasn’t weird with Cas.  Dean had never been shy about his body before, but with Cas standing there, rosy cheeked and covered in Dean’s blood, he was keenly aware of his lack of clothing.

“Have you ever done it before?”

“No, but I’ve seen it done.”

Dean arched an eyebrow.  “When?”

Cas’ blush deepened and he reached for the tie that wasn’t there.  “Just now.  On YouTube.”

Dean’s laugh caught them both by surprise.  This whole god damned night was ridiculous, and it felt good, the little bit of endorphins taking some of the doom and gloom out of Dean’s chest.  Cas’ eyes sparkled.

“All right, come on.  We ain’t got all night.”

Cas refused to let Dean do anything but stand there and follow instructions.  He washed Dean’s chest and back, gently dabbing his skin with the steaming hot wash cloth until the water in the sink was crimson.  He took extra care around the wounds, not wanting to disturb the clots that had formed.

“You’re lucky the bullet didn’t hit your brachial artery,” Cas said, his voice tight.  “You would have bled out within minutes.”

Dean knew.  But if Cas had died because Dean dragged him into all this bullshit, he never could have forgiven himself.  He hadn’t even thought about it.

“No point in worrying about what didn’t happen, Cas.”

“It doesn’t concern you?  How close you came to dying?”

“I don’t like people buying the farm on my watch.”

“You seem to have very little regard for your own life,” Cas said bluntly, his head cocked to the side.  “I don’t understand it.”

“It’s my job,” Dean said, not really wanting to think or talk about it.  “What’s there to understand?”

Cas frowned.  

“I can take care of myself,” Dean said, anticipating where Cas’ brain was headed and wanting to squash that shit before he could say whatever chickflick thing he was thinkin’ about saying.  He had to take care of himself.  Sam would rip the world a new one to save Dean.  He’d do all sorts of stupid, reckless shit to make sure Dean made it through.  So would Bobby, Charlie and Jo, for that matter.  That wasn’t the problem.  The problem was he wasn’t worth them risking their lives.  

Cas’ frown deepened to a scowl, but he let it drop.  He drained the sink and got the needle, thread, and rubbing alcohol out of the kit.  Pressing a hand towel against Dean’s back below the wound, he popped the lid on the alcohol.

“This is going to hurt.”

Understatement.  Dean wanted to put his fist through the wall, to have some other pain to focus on.

He hardly felt a thing when Cas started stitching him up.  The pinch-pull of needle and thread moving through flesh was always uncomfortable, but Cas was gentle.  Not even Sam was so considerate with him.

Cas was not happy, though.  He kept his thoughts to himself while he worked, his focus intense, but displeasure rolled off him in waves.  For the life of him, Dean couldn’t figure out what he’d said that had pissed Cas off so much.  Which got him wondering why Cas was even hanging around.  

Having a deep-seated hatred for Bela Talbot himself, Dean got Cas not wanting her to have his gizmo.  But he’d decided to throw his lot in with Dean before that.  Cas said he had a better chance of making it out of the weekend alive with Dean than on his own, only to be shot at ten minutes later.  Dean hadn’t questioned it at the time because he was getting what he wanted, mostly, and they were on a schedule, but in light of recent events, neither of his justifications were holding any water.  At least not from where Dean was sitting.  

Revenge Dean understood.  Doing the right thing he understood.  But Cas was a normal guy, used to the safety and comfort of his bland, sterile environment.  He should be running for the hills right now, not saving Dean a trip to the hospital.

Dean openly watched Cas’ face as he repeated the procedure on his chest with steady hands.  The exit wound was larger and more ragged than the entrance wound, and Dean knew he was lucky Bela hadn’t been packin’ anything with a little more kick to it.  The trajectory passed close enough to his collarbone that any larger caliber would have destroyed it.  He focused on that because thinking about what was going on in Cas’ head was wading into dangerous waters.

Cas took a deep breath when he finished, his shoulders dropping in relief.  He didn’t put space between them though. Dean found he didn’t mind.  He should have; Cas was all up in his personal space.

“Not bad for a first timer,” Dean said, trying to lighten the mood.

“You will want to procure antibiotics in the near future.  The bleeding is under control, but infection may still be an issue.  You should also eat something to ameliorate the blood loss.”

Cas’ voice was wrong, all stiff and formal.  Distant.  Dean’s desire to keep the lid on this new can of worms warred with the unexpected desire to make better whatever it was that had gotten under Cas’ skin.

Cas had no such reservations.  

“I would imagine, to do what you do, that you would need to trust your teammates implicitly,” he said, speaking slowly, like he was trying to find the right words.  Or maybe not turn whatever he was plannin’ to say into an argument. “Their affection for you is obvious, and yet… it’s almost like you think you don’t deserve it.”

Dean felt like he’d been sucker punched.  Seriously.  He knew Cas was a genius, but was Dean so transparent?  Did he wear that shit on his sleeve?  It unnerved him how much Cas was able to tell, just by looking.  Fucking voodoo.

Cas’ eyes widened when Dean didn’t respond.  “Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“You took a bullet for me,” he accused.

“Don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

“How do you think I would feel if you’d died protecting me?”  He paused, inhaling sharply. “ _ Oh _ .  I see.”

“Don’t act like you know anything about me,” Dean growled.  He wanted to walk away from this, every cell of his being begging him to, but Cas had pinned him to a board.  Cas did the math in his head, added up all the little bits of conversations and came up with a total Dean wasn’t prepared to analyze.

“The thought of anyone you care about coming to harm on your behalf—”

“Cas— ”

“Risking themselves for you in the same way— ”

“ _ Stop.” _

“Do you think you’re the only one who doesn’t want people dying for them?” Cas demanded.  He didn’t raise his voice, but it thundered in the small space.  “Do you think sacrificing yourself for someone will somehow… right all the wrongs of your past?”

_ Yes _ .

“Dean,” Cas snapped, blue eyes crackling with electricity.  He took a moment to calm himself before continuing.  “All human life has value.  Even yours.”

“If you knew half the shit I’ve done, you wouldn’t be here.  You wouldn’t be saying this.  You’d be runnin’ the other way as fast as you could.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done; I care what you’re  _ doing _ .  And before you object, you haven’t done anything to secure the safety of your family that I would not do for my own.  Yes, I wish the charade had not been necessary, but I will not judge you for doing what you had to do.”  He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  It was searingly hot on his skin and it took everything Dean had not to lean into it.  “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for, Dean.”

Dean wanted to argue, to make him understand that he was wrong, but the words stuck in his throat.  Cas kept staring at him, all sincerity and acceptance, his hand scorching a brand onto Dean’s flesh.  He was more connected to Cas in that moment than he’ed ever been to anyone.  He didn’t deserve that, either.  He didn’t deserve anything Cas was offering.  

Cas sighed, resigned.  “Take a shower.  I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

 

@@@

 

Castiel shut the door behind him with a soft click and stood in the hall until he heard Dean start the shower.  He didn’t think he’d met a more frustrating individual in his entire life, and that was saying something.  Castiel had grown up with Gabriel.  But while Gabriel lived to annoy people by being constantly up-close and personal, Dean was determined to keep the world at arm’s length.

After leaving Dean’s change of clothes on the floor outside the bathroom door, Castiel wandered back into the living room.  Charlie perked up when she saw him, anxious to continue the conversation they’d started in the elevator, and Castiel braced himself.  She was more calm now that she was safely ensconced behind her wall of computers, but she was chatty by nature and Castiel had a hard time keeping up with her as she bounced from one thought to the next.  She was, however, exceptionally intelligent, and had no trouble whatsoever grasping the advanced electro-chemical concepts relevant to the production of cold fusion energy.  

It was nice, having someone to talk to about it who understood.  Anna listened, and he appreciated it, but he knew she didn’t grasp it all, and Gabriel was a lost cause on the intellectual conversation front.  She was the perfect distraction from his conversation with Dean, and Castiel forgot to be uncomfortable.

Cas was with Charlie behind her collection of electronic equipment going over the prototype’s blueprints when Jo returned, carrying so much stuff it was a miracle she didn’t over: two duffel bags packed to bursting, one hung on each side of her body, a box so large she couldn’t wrap her arms around it, and a fast food bag clenched between her teeth.  Bobby relieved her of the box, and she dropped the rest on the sofa.  

“What’s the word, bird?” she said, ripping into the food bag.  She tossed everyone a burger before unwrapping one for herself and biting off half in one go.  She flopped on the couch.  “There’s more if you guys want,” she said around the mouthful.

Charlie made a disgusted face at the other girl’s antics.  “Still waiting to hear back from Senor Douchebag.”

“Dean?”  

“Bathroom.”

“Oh, hey Doc,” she said, grabbing for one of the duffles. “I swung by your place and grabbed you a change of clothes.”

Castiel froze mid-bite and frowned.  “How did you get into my apartment?”

“That’s… not really important.  But if you’d rather walk around wearin’ Dean’s blood all night, be my guest.”

This was a fair point. Castiel decided some things were best left unexamined.  “Thank you?”

“And your cat’s a dick.” 

“Did you get everything?” Bobby said, joining them from his bedroom.  He’d put his hat back on, but looked just as rumpled.  

Jo snorted.  “Of course I did.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and caught the sandwich Jo threw at him without missing a beat.  “How much time you need, Doc?  To make the replicas?”

“Replicas?  Plural?”

“You heard me,” Bobby said, his expression unreadable.

Castiel had no idea what kind of plan the man was concocting.  “Two hours, give or take?”

“Let’s hope that’s quick enough,” Bobby said.  “I’ll have Jo help you while she’s here.  I don’t know what our timetable’s gonna look like.  Not until we hear back from Crowley.” He turned to Charlie.  “Find anything on traffic cams?”

“A blue BMW  went through the gate after…”  She waved her hand.  “ _ After _ , but I couldn’t pull a clear shot of the tags and I lost it after a couple of blocks.  Either it was stolen and she dumped it or it had absolutely nothing to do with Bela and I’m chasing the wrong car.”

Bobby grunted.  “Hotels?”

“I got into the mainframes of a couple five-stars, but none of her aliases have pinged yet.”

“Keep lookin’.  Check names who’ve checked out today, too, just in case.  After she meets the buyer, she’s gonna wanna get outta town quick.”

“Gotchya,” Charlie replied, nodding.  She tapped a finger on the head of the Hermione Granger bobble head doll next to her main monitor.  “We got this, huh, HG?”

A smile tugged at Castiel’s lips.  Charlie was strange.  And endearing.

Suddenly, Dean appeared in the middle of the room, half dressed and barefoot, holding his phone out in the palm of his hand.  Castiel heard it vibrating from across the room.  His expression was grim.  

“It’s Crowley.”

Everyone in the room became instantly alert.  Jo even put her second burger down. 

Dean tapped the screen with his finger.  “Did you find anything?”

Crowley heaved a long-suffering sigh.   _ “Always so impatient,” _ he said, in a drawling English accent.  His voice was smoky, his tone pompous, and it grated on Castiel’s nerves.

“Crowley, I swear to God—”

“ _ Alright, alright.  Untwist your knickers, would ya?  Of course I found something.  I am me.” _

Dean rolled his eyes.  “And?”

_ “Seriously, no sense of the dramatic.”  _  He sighed again.   _ “I don’t know for sure that she’s the buyer, but reliable sources have Abbadon flying into Dulles on a private charter at 2 o’clock this morning.” _

Beside Castiel, Charlie let out a little gasp.  He looked around the room.  Jo was white as a sheet, Bobby was in the middle of draining his mug of its dubious contents, and Dean was clenching his jaw so hard Castiel worried for his teeth.

This could not be good.

“You’re sure?” Dean somehow managed.

_ “Don’t be insulting.” _

“I’ll be in touch.”

Without waiting for a reply, Dean disconnected the line.

Everyone started swearing at once.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

“Who is Abbadon?” Castiel shouted over the din.  Bobby was cursing to himself, but Jo and Dean had devolved into some sort of argument.  Beside him Charlie muttered under her breath about homicidal maniacs and batshit crazy motherfuckers.  None of this filled Castiel with confidence.

Castiel’s voice caught Dean’s attention.

“Only the most psychotic—” Dean started.

“Hateful, soulless ginger on the planet.” Charlie finished, her voice a little pitchy.  “I am ashamed for my race.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said.

“She’s certifiable,” Bobby added.”  “With a side of megalomania.”

“Think Genghis Khan in Prada,” Jo said.

“Hitler in Gucci,” Charlie said.

“A goddamn nightmare,” Dean said.

This was very not good.

“And she’s the one who paid Bela to steal my prototype?  Why would she want it?”

“Well, cornering the world’s energy market seems like a good place to start a quest for world domination,” Jo said. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, could this night get any worse?” Dean said.  “I mean what part of his soul does a guy have to sell to catch a break around here?”

“Don’t tempt the Universe, Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean stopped ranting to glare.  Jo snorted.

Castiel looked to Bobby.  “What does this mean?”

“It means we’ve got less than four hours to make the replicas and figure out how we’re going to prevent the most mentally unhinged criminal in the world from getting her hands on your invention.”

 

Charlie shooed Castiel into the shower shortly thereafter, and he got the feeling that he wasn’t invited to the planning stages, if the surreptitious glances were anything to go by.  He didn’t argue.  His clothes were crunchy and gross, and his head was throbbing.  The nausea had faded, but the headache lingered.  A shower was what he needed.  

And the bottle of Tylenol he found in the bottom of the medical kit.  That was a definite move in the right direction.

He tried hard not to think about any of it, because Dean had a point.  How many more things could go wrong tonight?  Anna had said the exact same thing the day before.  It was absurd, in light of recent events, how narrow his concept of  _ wrong  _ had been.

Castiel laughed.  He laughed until his ribs hurt and his toes wrinkled, and if any of them out there could hear him they’d think he’d gone mad.

He didn’t feel crazy though.  Just out of his depth. There was a facet of the world he was just discovering and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There was no black or white on this side, only shades of grey, the lines between  _ right  _ and  _ legal  _ blurring.  It was…fascinating.

Castiel dressed, marveling that Jo had somehow managed to grab both his favorite jeans and his favorite shirt.  She was a little scary.

Barefoot, he padded down the hall toward the living room, but stopped short of revealing himself. He could hear them talking, gathered around the coffee table, and he pressed himself against the wall, out of sight.  He felt bad about eavesdropping, but he couldn’t help it: he wanted to know the plan. 

“You guys are missing the big picture here,” Dean said.  His back was to Castiel.  He’d put a shirt on since, but the tension across his broad shoulders was unmistakable.  “We do not want Abbadon on our asses.  She’ll make dealing with Crowley look like a day at the beach.”

“Well, what do you suggest then?” Bobby snapped.  “Because we don’t have a lot of time to sit around with our thumbs up our asses squabbling over this.”

“Frontal assault.”

“What?” Charlie cried, brown eyes wide with alarm.

“Are you fucking deficient?” Jo said, throwing her arms in the air.  It was the most emotion Castiel had seen from her all night.  “That has to be the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever said, Winchester.”

“I’m not kidding,” Dean said, not rising to Jo’s insults.  “Bela knows us.  She’ll see anything we do coming a mile away, and all we really need to do is switch out Cas’ prototype for the fake.  We can be in and out in, like, three minutes.”

“Dean,” Bobby said.  “I hate to say it, but Jo’s right.  Even if we do make the swap, we’ll be lucky if any of us make it out to bring the damn thing to Crowley.  We already learned the hard way Bela’s packin’, and for all we know Abbadon could be traveling with a small army.”

“It’s suicide,” Charlie agreed.  “And I have zero weapons skills.”

“Dean has a point though,” Jo conceded, grudgingly.  “Bela does know us.  Any game we try to run is gonna blow up in our faces.”

Castiel allowed himself three seconds to dwell on how serious a decision he was making based on so little data before he stepped into the room.  “She doesn’t know all of us.”  Everyone turned to look at him, but Castiel plowed ahead.  “Specifically, she doesn’t know me.”

Dean was the only one not looking at him like they were seeing him for the first time.  Bobby even looked impressed.  Dean looked horrified. 

“No,” Dean said, unequivocally.

“What did you have in mind, Doc?” Bobby asked.

“What the hell, Bobby?” Dean said.

“The only way to ensure Abbadon doesn’t kill us all is for her to think she’s getting what she wants, which we don’t have.”  Castiel said, ignoring Dean.  He reached for his tie, which wasn’t there.  “But what if we convinced her we did?”

Jo looked intrigued now, as well.  “She’s shelling out a lot of cash for it, too.  She’ll want to be sure she’s getting the real McCoy.”

“If we can discredit Bela, it will not be difficult.  Aside from myself and two of my interns, no one knows what the prototype looks like in use.”

“You want to present yourself as a rival?” Dean said, his voice rising.  “Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s a safer option than a frontal assault.” Cas met Dean’s gaze across the room.  It was a challenge, and they both knew it.

“You realize that it’d have to be you, right?” Bobby said, searching Castiel’s face for any sign of indecision or doubt.  “None of us could take point on this.”

“Bela saw him in the garage, and at the party,” Dean said, not ready to give up yet.

“But we never spoke,” Cas said.  “And I’m not exactly famous.  It’s possible all she knows about me is that I was with you.”

“She’ll see right through it,” Dean insisted.  “And then she’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

“It wouldn’t be that hard for me to create a profile, either,” Charlie said, weighing in with tentative excitement.  “When I’m done, it’ll look like you’ve been in business for ages.”

“I speak Russian.”

Charlie’s eyes got big.  “Oooh, that’s good.”

A nod from Bobby and she was scurrying off to her computers.

“Am I the only who sees what a horrible idea this is?” Dean said.  He began to sound desperate, only this time Castiel didn’t need to wonder why.  This was his worst nightmare come true.  Someone else was taking all the risk for his benefit.

“It’s also the only idea that doesn’t lead us into a firefight,” Bobby said.

“He’s a civilian!”

“You’re the one that insisted on bringing him into this.”

Dean ignored this, and changed tactics.  “You’ve spent your whole life in a lab, Cas.  This isn’t a James Bond movie, where the good guys never run out of ammo, and the bad guys all end up broke, behind bars, or dead.  The bad guys win out here.  You are not prepared for this.” 

Castiel leveled his gaze at Dean.  “Some things just need doin’, Dean.”

Dean snapped his jaw shut and glared, his body vibrating with tension, but remained silent.  If looks could set things on fire, Castiel would burst into flame. 

“You two done with your moment?” Bobby said.  “Cuz I gotta plan.”

 

##  @

 

Dean felt like the only one who hadn’t climbed on the short bus.  Or maybe he was dreaming.  Was there a verb for having a nightmare?  Because  _ that _ , that’s what was happening.  He almost regretted not letting Jo tase Cas back at the lab.  At least then Cas wouldn’t be getting ready to storm the goddamn Death Star with nothing but a fake gadget and a can-do attitude.  According to Bobby’s plan, Dean wouldn’t even be able to accompany him on the ground.  Bela had every right to assume he was dead, and Bobby didn’t want to give her any reason to suspect otherwise.

So there Dean was, breaking into the formal wear shop he’d bought his tux from to steal another one for Cas, then he and Charlie would be off to Dulles to do some recon.  The security system was a joke.  A steady hand on the back door’s deadbolt, and a decoder doohickey on the alarm pad and Dean was in.  He’d spotted the three security cameras earlier, too, so he knew where all the blind spots were.

“ _ Charlie, Jo, I need you to go off-comm for a minute.  Dean and I need to have a chat. _ ”

Sonofabitch.

“What is it, Bobby?  I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

“ _ I know, son.  If we’d had more time I’d’ve rather done this face-to-face, myself.” _

Dean was very glad this would not be face-to-face.  He’d had quite enough face-to-faces tonight, thanks very much.  “Just spit it out.”

“ _ I need to know where your head’s at.” _

Dean cringed and accepted that he didn’t have the right to be offended here.  This whole thing with Cas wasn’t just a mess, it was his mess.

“ _ Please explain to me what the Sam Hill you were thinkin’?” _

Dean could offer a lot of answers, but most of them were bullshit.  The truth was, he’d just been trying his damndest to come out of this with a clear conscience.  “I wanted his blessing, not a new sidekick.”

That came out wrong.

“ _ His blessing?” _  Bobby said, his voice oozing skepticism.  “ _ Since when have you ever needed anyone’s blessing?  You’ve been doin’ your own thing since you were knee-high to a grasshopper.” _

Dean had no counter argument.

Bobby grunted.  He was an intuitive old fuck.  “Tell me what it is that makes you trust him so much, and I’ll drop it.”

Dean’s first impulse was to deny it.  He wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow Dean wound up trusting Cas, possibly more than Cas trusted Dean.  Cas was honorable; if nothing else, he could always trust him to do what was right.  

“Haven’t you ever known someone who made you want to be…”  Dean gave up looking for a word that didn’t sound sappy and growled in frustration.  Why did people always want to talk about his feelings?

“Yeah,” he said,pausing.  When he spoke again his voice was more gruff than usual  “My wife.”

 

When Dean returned to the van five minutes later, tuxedo in hand, Bobby’s words ping-ponged around in his chest. The heat under the collar of his jacket didn’t seem to want to dissipate.  He must have been a little flushed, too, because even in the brief moments the cabin was illuminated before he slammed the door shut Charlie had noticed something was off.

“You alright?”

“Just drive.”

“Oooookaay,” she said, dropping the transmission in drive and turning into traffic.

That was one thing he loved about Charlie.  She never made him ‘talk,’ and between Cas and Bobby, Dean had already been talked half to death today.

“Can I ask you something?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Dean had been wrong.  He sighed.  “No.”

He heard her roll her eyes over the radio. “Touchy.”

  
  


They sneaked onto the airport tarmac, stealing security passes and gear as they went.  Charlie had her tablet and Dean had his smile, and before long, they were riding together in an unattended baggage truck to the private charter terminals.  

“I see why you like him,” she said, raising her voice over the roar of the engine and the ambient noise of one of the busiest airports on the Eastern seaboard.

“I can’t hear you!” Dean shouted back.

It was patently untrue, and Charlie knew it.

 

Dean looked busy, aimlessly shifting things, covertly scoping the layout of the area for the best vantage points.   Charlie worked her magic at the computer inside the hangar where all of the private jets were kept.  Plenty of people milled around, but none paid him or Charlie any mind.  With the hardhats and safety vests, they looked like they belonged.

“They recently installed these,” Charlie said, doing that thing where she explains things to Dean that he doesn’t really care about.  “Now the pilots don’t have to go to the main terminal to log their flight plans with the FAA.  They can upload them from here, using biometric technology as a signature.”

“I’m not gonna need to go find a hand or a retina, am I?”

“No,” Charlie said, sounding disgusted.  Maybe she thought Dean wouldn’t bring the body to which they were attached with him.  “I’m not submitting a flight plan.  I’m just getting a peek at the terminal schedules.  There are, like, a hundred different places Abbadon could be parking, and—”

“That’s interesting,” Dean said.  “Are you almost done?”

“Look here, Winchester.  Don’t take your inability to delegate danger out on me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I know you’ve got this whole thing,” Charlie continued on, completely ignoring him.  “And I get it, I do, but Castiel is a big boy.  You gotta let him make big boy choices.”

“Is there a point to this little lecture?”

“My point is,” Charlie said, turning on him.  She put her fists on her hips, throwing her elbows wide. She must have picked up the pose from Jo, because she was intimidating despite being so tiny.  “It’s obvious you trust him.  Let him pull his weight, prove he’s earned it.”

“Do you realize how crazy you sound?  He’s a civilian!  The most dangerous thing he encounters on a daily basis are the bums on the Metro.”

“We were all civilians, at one point.”

“Oh, great, so now I’m responsible for making an upstanding, tax-paying citizen a criminal.  Is that what you’re saying?”

“No.  I’m saying  _ he  _ chose this.  Not you.  You presented him with options, and here he is.  You asked him to trust you, and he did.  Stop babying him.  And stop beating yourself up.”

“I should have let Jo tase him,” Dean said.  “Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“If you’d let Jo tase him, Bela would have killed you in the garage and gotten the prototype, and we’d really be screwed.”

Dean was over talking about this.  How many times was he going to be ambushed in a twenty-four hour period?  This had to break some sort of record.

“Hurry up, would ya?”

Charlie disconnected her tablet and hopped back in the truck.

With a sigh of relief, Dean climbed in and fired it up.

“He is a bit of catch though, isn’t he?” she said with a mischievous smile.  “Brains, brawn, and eyes like the summer sky?  If only he had breasts.”

“Kill me now.”

Charlie giggled like a schoolgirl, an airy, lighthearted sound, and Dean let himself smile.  Just a tiny one. 

 

##  @@

 

Castiel had had a gun pointed at him not too long ago, but being stuck alone in a room with Jo was decidedly more terrifying.  And they didn’t just have the room to themselves.  They had the whole suite.  Dean and Charlie had gone off to do some reconnaissance, and Bobby had left with a grunt in farewell, which left Castiel and Jo alone at the kitchen table with a box full of supplies and an impending deadline.

But Castiel was also in his element.  As interesting as the science of cold fusion was, building the prototype had been the fun part.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?” Castiel asked.  

“I design my own ordinance,” she deadpanned.  “Does that count?”

Sarcasm, noted. Also, not very comforting.  “Yes.” 

“What are we waiting for?”

They set up opposite each other, Jo mirroring his every move with confidence.  It was like she’d built it before, sometimes anticipating his next move.  She was precise, bordering on mechanical, with a keen eye and steady hands.  They worked in silence, which was fine.  Castiel didn’t have a clue what he would talk to her about, anyway.  What do you say to a woman who had been eager to send thousands of volts of electricity coursing through your body not too long ago?

About halfway through, Jo set her soldering iron down with a huff and glared at Castiel.  He resisted the urge to put extra space between them.

“Is there something on your mind?” he asked, after a long, uncomfortable minute of intense staring.

“What’s your angle?”

“Pardon?”

“I can’t figure it out.  And don’t give me that ‘right thing’ bullshit you fed Dean.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?” she scoffed.  “I’ve known you for a grand total of two hours.”

“Dean trusts me.”

“Dean’s a mutton head.”

Cas snorted.  He couldn’t help it.  “I don’t think that’s entirely true, Jo.”

“It’s true enough.”

Castiel set his own tools down and gave her his full attention.  “What is it about me wanting to do the right thing that you find so inconceivable?”

“Because,” she said, leaning forward, “no one does the right thing.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Sam is—”  She stopped, choking on whatever word she’d been planning to say.  “Sam is family.  There’s no question of right and wrong.”

“You’re suggesting you wouldn’t do this to help someone else?” Cas prodded.

“We’re thieves,” she said.  “Sam is a thief.  We were stealing from you.  Why do you care what happens to us?”

There were a lot of reasons, really, but not one, overshadowing motivation that would ease Jo’s cynical mind.  He had tried to explain some of it to Dean, but he wasn’t sure he’d been successful then and doubted he would be now.  

“Do you even?” she said when he took too long to answer.  “Or is this just about your research?”

Castiel thought about this from her point of view. Without the benefit of the uncommon connection he seemed to have with Dean, it would look like all he cared about was his research.  Castiel was well aware that he was not an especially emotive person; his conversation with Dean at the lab centered predominantly around how much Dean didn’t want the prototype.  Castiel had negotiated his way into being the first set of hands on it.  It occurred to him that maybe this was why they were making two replicas.  Had Bobby been preparing a contingency plan in the event that Castiel double-crossed them?

The thought made him sad.

“How do I know you’re not going to cut and run the minute you get your prototype back?”

Her tone was bitter. How many people had left Jo behind?

“You don’t,” he replied.  “But I won’t.”

“Why should I believe you?” she said, slamming her fist down on the table.

“Because Dean would never forgive me.”

It took him by surprise how true it was.

Castiel met Jo’s unwavering gaze head on, gave her all the time she needed to make up her mind.  At last, she exhaled sharply through her nose and picked up the soldering iron again.  “Where were we?”

He figured it was about as much of a vote of confidence as he was going to get.

 

##  @@@

 

Junk food and liquor filled the kitchen cabintes, but Castiel did find a bag of Folgers in the freezer.  It was just after midnight, and he and Jo had finished the replicas, but even the adrenaline he’d cruised on for the last couple of hours was not enough to keep the fatigue from creeping in.  Without caffeine soon, he’d be dead on his feet.

Dean and Charlie returned as the machine finished brewing, filling the suite with the quiet sounds of occupation.  After so much time in complete silence with Jo, it soothed him.  Charlie made straight for her computers, buzzing with excitement.  

Dean looked annoyed.  He froze midstep when he saw Castiel staring at him, like Dean had forgotten he’d be here.  Castiel wasn’t sure what to expect by this point.  They’d experienced more stages of relational development in one night than was probably healthy, and yet… There was something there.  A spark of connection so rare, Castiel was reluctant to give it up, regardless of how difficult the path became.

It felt like hope.

Dean did that thing where he purposefully relaxed his shoulders before moving forward again.  He stopped in the doorway, bracing his palms against the threshold.  “Did you guys finish?”

“We did,” Castiel replied.  

Dean nodded, trying for nonchalant.  “Cool.”  He looked to Jo.  “We need to talk weapons.”

Jo perked up immediately.  “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“I need you to tell me that you completely ignored Bobby’s no long-range rule.”

Jo smiled, looking for all the world like the cat that got the canary.

“That’s my girl.”

“Hey, Castiel!” Charlie called from the other room.  “Get your butt in here!”

Dean chuckled and came into the room, dropping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he reached above him to grab a coffee mug.  “Don’t keep the lady waiting.”

An olive branch.

Castiel offered a tentative smile.  

Charlie’s fingers were a blur on the keyboard when he arrived, bearing two cups of coffee.  Her eyes lit up when she saw the proffered drink.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Castiel sat next to her on the kitchen chair he’d brought in earlier.  “Do you?” he asked, surprised.  He hadn’t been around long enough for any of them to like him.  Accept his presence as a necessity, sure; show genuine fondness, not so much.

Charlie nodded as she gingerly sipped from her mug.  “I am an excellent judge of character.”

“I’ll take the compliment.”

“Thank God,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes.  “Everyone else here is so  _ repressed _ .”

Castiel knew exactly what she meant.

“What did you need?”

She set the coffee down and handed him the tablet.  “I put the finishing touches on your dossier on the way back.  Thought you’d want to go through it now, while we’ve got time.  You may not be famous, but in about five minutes we’ll reveal Ilya Petrovich as the international criminal community’s best kept secret.”

Castiel swiped through the file, and his eyes grew larger the more he read.  She’d credited him with two dozen high profile heists dating back twenty years, one or two he remembered hearing about.

“Charlie, this is…”

“Epic, right?  I really think I outdid myself this time.”

“I… were these things actually stolen?”

“Ayup.  By one of us, at one point or another.  Stuff we never got linked to.  I could have made stuff up, but then we’d run the risk of Abbadon or Bela knowing who really stole it and blow your cover, which would be a bad day in Baghdad.”  

“It says here that I stole the Mona Lisa,” he said, bewildered.  “The Mona Lisa is in the Louvre.”

Charlie grinned.  “Take a few minutes, memorize the highlights.  Enough to pique their interest.  If one of them doesn’t pull out their phone and Google you I’ll eat my shoe.”

Charlie turned back to her computers, and Castiel spent a few minutes following her suggestion..  “Which of these are yours?”

“A lady has to have some secrets,” she said coyly, her lips curling upward.

Castiel watched her, his curiosity running rampant.  He’d wondered why anyone would chose a life of crime, but now especially so about Charlie.  She was kind and quirky— not character traits he typically associated with criminals — but she was also uncommonly intelligent, and talented in a way that was mind boggling.  She could have been anything she wanted to be. 

“I don’t want to seem rude,” Castiel said, “but how did you end up doing… this?”

“I was always good with computers,” she said, half-shrugging as her fingers flew relentlessly across the keyboard.  She only looked away to switch her gaze between monitors.  “When I was fourteen this hacker douche-lord called Ruckus told me I’d never be good enough to hack the Pentagon.  So I hacked the Pentagon.”

Just like that.  She hacked the Pentagon.

“You’ve never considered doing something more...traditional?”

“Pfft.  Can you see me at a nine-to-five?  Please.”

“What about the others?”

“Well, no one even knows how old Bobby is, let alone how long he’s been in the game or how he got started.  Jo grew up in the circus.  It wasn’t much of a leap from the tightrope to air ducts and elevator shafts.”

Castiel could envision it easily.  He’d already witnessed her acrobatics first hand.

“What about Dean?  And Sam?”

“They grew up in this life.  Their dad was a freaking legend.”  Charlie shook her head, like she was still impressed.  “He was the guy momma grifters told their little baby grifters bedtime stories about, you know?”

What kind of life that must have been, growing up in the back seat of the Impala, learning the tricks of the trade in between homework assignments?  Castiel’s childhood had been no walk in the park, but he wouldn’t swap with Dean for anything.

“How did you all end up together?”

“Ah, our origin story,” she said, beaming with pride.  “We got hired to do a job a few years ago, and it just kind of…took?  I guess?  It was touch and go at first, but we made it work.”  Then, as though it was an afterthought:  “Sam kinda holds us all together.”

The dynamics of Dean and his family were intriguing.  That’s what they were: a family.  Not blood necessarily, but the kind built on trust and dedication. Each of them had their role to play, and from what he’d seen, they played them well.  Even with all of the setbacks and the stress of not having Sam, they still spun around each other like well-oiled, expertly crafted gears.  Separately, they were skilled: together, they were a machine.

Castiel was honored to have been given the opportunity to witness it.

Charlie stared at him, chewing uncertainly on her bottom lip.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Did Dean—?  You know this isn’t what we normally do, right?”

“What do you mean?”  According to Jo they were thieves.  They were stealing things.  This seemed self-explanatory.

“We’re not usually the bad guys.  Dean wasn’t lying when he said we didn’t want your prototype.  Like, you weren’t even on our radar until Crowley took Sam.”

“But you’ve been in D.C. for weeks.”

“I know, setting up this d-bag, Alexander Turpin.”

Castiel vaguely recognized the name, but his memory was refreshed when Charlie’s fingers danced across her keyboard and Turpin’s face popped up on the screen.  “He was accused of rape last year.”

“It’s not the first time he’s done it, either.  Our clients are his victims.”

“Clients?”

“Yeah.  They were violated in the worst way, and the law failed them, Castiel.  They deserve for something good to come out of it.”

Castiel was stunned.  It was a little on the vigilante side, but he wasn’t going to be the one to argue that there was a gap between where the law ended and where justice began.  It was another one of those grey areas that few people were willing to admit even existed, let alone try to navigate. 

It also meant that all those weeks of Dean flirting had been…genuine.  Not part of a ploy to rob him.  That had come later, and only after his brother’s life had been threatened.  That spark of hope flared.  Maybe that connection, that bond he had with Dean wasn’t in his head.  Maybe Dean felt it too.

Dean came into the living room and pushed the coffee table against the sofa so he could sit on the floor.  He set a bottle of whiskey on the table.  Jo joined him a moment later, toting two long triangular black canvas bags, and a small plastic box.

“You want the AR or the Blaser R93?” she said.

“Gimme the Blaser.”

“Don’t break it,” Jo replied, handing him the longer of the two.  “They just quit making ‘em.”

Dean shot her a dirty look, and Jo smirked before dropping onto the floor cross-legged.

Castiel watched with interest as Dean and Jo took two enormous guns out of their cases.  Empirically, he knew large caliber weapons existed, but he’d never seen any this close before.  It was obvious that neither of them were any stranger to firearms.  Dean handled the long-barrel rifle like an extension of his body, and Jo began taking the assault rifle apart with even more precision than she’d applied to assembling the prototype replicas.  

“He’s so calm,” Castiel said, watching Dean as he effortlessly stripped the rifle down to its components and began cleaning them.  He still envied how cool and collected Dean was, considering what they were getting ready to do and what the stakes were.

“Dean?” Charlie said, half laughing.  “He’s not calm.  He’s freaking the fuck out.  They both are.”

Castiel looked at Charlie. Were they watching the same person?

“Seriously,” she said, noting his incredulity.  “He’s in battle mode right now.”

“How can you tell?”  All Castiel saw was laser-focus and steady hands.

“Because he’s been carrying that bottle of whiskey around with him since we got back from the hotel and hasn’t even taken off the lid.”

It was true.  Even in the bathroom when he had sutured Dean’s wounds, the bottle had been there, unopened.  Like an adult security blanket.

“He used to drink a lot,” Charlie said, her voice soft, “at first.  Now he…I don’t know.  I think he likes to remind himself how easy it would be to go back there.”

This shed new light on many of the things Dean had said to him over the past two days.

“You’ve thrown him for a loop though.   Not many people can claim to have done that.”  Before Castiel could process everything, Charlie stood and headed for the kitchen to top off her coffee.  “You should read up while you can.  We’ll be leaving as soon as Bobby gets back.”

 

##  @@@@

God did it feel good to have a gun in his hands.  Most people associated guns with violence, but for Dean they’ve always symbolized control.  Over a situation, over an adversary.  Stripping and cleaning them was cathartic; kind of like meditating.  It emptied his mind, and settled his heart, and the smell of gun oil was a salve.  He needed exactly this.

So did Jo, by the look of her.  She didn’t have many tells, but the little pucker between her brows was a dead giveaway.  Dean hoped he could still count on her to not want to do the sharing and caring bit, because if he had to have any more chickflick moments today he was gonna start pulling his hair out.

When Jo stopped and balled her fists in her lap, Dean’s heart sunk.  The Universe was mocking him.

“I have a confession,” she said.  She kept her voice low so that Cas and Charlie wouldn’t hear.

Dean sighed, but kept working, kept his hands busy.  It would be easier to take that way, and, for Jo, it would be easier to spit out if she didn’t have his full attention.

“I’m listening.”

“I followed you.”

“What?” Dean said, pausing.  He racked his brain trying to think of what she was—  _ oh _ .  His lunch date with Cas yesterday.  Sonofabitch.

“I wasn’t close enough to hear what you guys were talking about but…”  She stopped and frowned.  At least she was as uncomfortable talking about this shit as he was.  “I’ve never seen you look so happy.”

Dean supposed that explained why she was up until oh-fuck-thirty throwin’ knives at the damn walls.

“It made me feel…”

“Angry?” Dean suggested.

“Sad.” She took a deep breath.  “For both of us.”

Dean stilled, and met her gaze for the first time since she’d started talking.  Jo open and exposed was a rare thing.  

“We don’t let ourselves have nice things, Dean.  We tell ourselves that we don’t need them, or that we don’t deserve them, or that it’ll keep.  We act like we’ve got all the time in the world, but sometimes we don’t.”

Dean had the distinct impression that Jo wasn’t talking about material objects.  “That’s awfully sentimental of you.”

Jo glared.  “Rude.”

She didn’t deny it, though.

“What happened to sentiment is useless?” Dean said.

“It is.  Mostly.  But I also thought you were thinking with your dick.  I’m not sure that’s what this is anymore.”

Dean imagined a ‘this’ with a capital T.  He was almost afraid to ask, but he bit the bullet when he realized Jo wasn’t going to continue without some prompting.  “What what’s about?”

“This thing you’ve got with the Doc.  I—”  She stopped and growled.  “It’s different.   _ You’re  _ different.”

“I’m the same ol’ me, Jo,” Dean said, shaking his head, even though it couldn’t have felt further from the truth.  He felt off-balance, like everything had taken a sharp left and he was still trying to get his bearings.  Bobby had noticed, too, but for Jo to have put her finger on it, Dean must have been hanging out signs.  

Jo shook her head right back.  “You’re not.  And don’t be pigheaded and miss what I’m trying to tell you.”

“I can’t miss anything if you don’t spit it out.”

“Time is a dirty whore.”

“O…kay….”

Jo scowled.  “It’s always running out.  Sometimes we don’t do or say things because we think that there’s always gonna be another chance.  Maybe it’s a stupid way of doing things.”   

Jo’s face pinched when she said it, like the words might be causing her real physical pain, and Dean wished Sam was there.  He always seemed to know just what to say to her to — oh.   _ Oh _ .  Sweet Jesus on a tortilla, how had he not seen this before?

“I may not get another chance,” Jo said.  

Dean’s heart twinged.  “We’re gonna get him back.  One way or—”

“Sam isn’t the only one who could die if this goes sideways,” Jo said in a rush.

She meant Cas, of course.

“I won’t pretend to understand how this happened, but don’t be an idiot and wait like I did.  You’re running out of time.”

 

##  @@@@@

 

Dean’s mind was no longer empty as his hands mechanically reassembled the rifle.  It was busy and cluttered, and took way more effort and concentration to put in order than he liked.  His whole life had been dumped upside down, and sitting at the center of the mess wasn’t Sam, or even Crowley, it was Cas.  Not because Cas was the problem, but because, the more Dean thought about it, the more he realized that maybe Cas was the solution.  He stood in every gap, picked up all the slack, filled every empty pair of shoes.  He kept stepping up.

No one had ever done that for Dean before, and he wasn’t in any real hurry to explore what that might mean, even if everyone else seemed to be.  Cas was one of those nice things, too nice to sully with Dean’s blood-soaked hands.  What right did he have to hope that…

_ No _ .

Dean wasn’t going to go there. Not today.  Nope.

_ “I’m running behind, _ ” Bobby said over comms, startling Dean.  It had been over an hour since he’d gone radio silent.   _ “We’ll have to meet outside the airport and get into position from there.  I’ll text you the coordinates.  And Dean?  Make sure the Doc’s ready.” _

“He sure is chatty,” Charlie said sarcastically.  “What’d you do with the tux?”

“Tux?” Cas parroted.

“You didn’t think you’d be going in a pair of ratty jeans and a Jethro Tull t-shirt, did you?” Jo said.

Cas looked uncharacteristically annoyed, but Dean couldn’t tell if it was nerves or if Jo had genuinely gotten under his skin.  Dean got up and brought Cas the commandeered suit.  

“I know I said it’s not like James Bond, but it kinda is.”

Cas smiled.

Less than ten minutes later the four of them stepped out of the elevator into the garage.  Jo, dressed in black and grey combat fatigues, headed towards the van with Charlie, the assault rifle and second prototype replica in hand, but not before tossing Dean the keys to the Nissan she’d boosted the day before.  Cas climbed into the passenger seat without question, like it never occurred to him that he should go in the van with the girls.  It filled Dean with an unexpected warmth.  Despite the most fucked up first date in the history of first dates, Cas still wanted to be near him.  What could he have ever done to earn this? 

Dean shook off the thought, and put the rifle and the prototype replica in the trunk.

“You ready?” he asked, dropping into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Cas replied, scowling at his reflection in the tiny vanity mirror on the back of the sun visor.  He pulled the knot out of his tie again, and started over.  “Let’s go.”

They were silent as they made their way onto the Beltway, the tension in the cramped cabin swelling like a water balloon.  Cas was getting more and more frustrated with his tie (which Dean would never, ever admit, on pain of death, that it was a little adorable, this love-hate relationship Cas had with ties), and Dean was feeling more and more compelled to…talk.  It was awful.

But sometimes you didn’t get a second chance.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, “I just… I just want to say thanks.  For everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Dean.”

“I mean it.”  Dean looked at Cas, only to find the other man already watching him.  “None of this would be possible without you.  So thank you.  Whatever happens next.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas replied gravely.  “It’s been an honor.”

Dean snorted.  “I talk you into a life of crime, and you say it’s an honor?”

“You didn’t talk me into anything, Dean.  I made these decisions, and I do not regret them.  And yes, an honor.”

Dean ignored the first part; it was too close to what Charlie had said earlier for comfort.  The second part, though, he was curious about that.  “How’d’ya figure?”

“You’ve shared your life with me, Dean.  Welcomed me into your home, and trusted me with your family.  I am honored.”

Sonofabitch, that got emotional fast.  Dean cleared his throat.  “So, tell me about Ilya Petrovich.”

“I vas born in Moscow in 1974 to Viktor and Irina Petrovich,” Cas said, slipping so seamlessly into a Russian accent Dean nearly put the car into the vehicle next to them.  Fucking hell, was that hot.  Cas was attractive enough as it was, but shit.  “My parents died in car crash ven I vas teenager, so I come to America.”

“Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about sounding the part, eh?”

Cas’ lips tugged up at the corners.  “ _ Net _ .”

“You know this isn’t just about memorizing that crap Charlie made up, right?”  Dean said.  “You’ve got to  _ be  _ Ilya Petrovich.”

“I vill take your suggestions into consideration,” Cas said, still talking with the accent.  

Cas must be trying to kill him.

“Always make eye contact, don’t take any shit, and believe in what you’re selling.  That’s rule number one,” Dean said, holding up a finger.  “Always believe your lie.”

“Vat is rule number two?” 

“Always have an exit strategy.”

“Do we?” Cas asked, reverting back to his American accent.

“Technically, yes.  But listen.  I need you to promise me the moment you think it’s gettin’ squirrelly, you’ll say the word, and get the hell outta dodge.  Me and Jo’ll cover you.”

“You’re worried.”

“Dude, of course I’m worried.  It’s kind of what I do.”

“You don’t think I can do this.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I think you keep surprising me, and that’s a hard thing to do.  I’m more worried Abbadon will get bored, shoot both you and Bela in the head and take them both, rather than figure out which of you is lying.”

“Is she really that volatile?” Cas said.

“Totally bonkers, man.  So you better be prepared for it.”

Castiel nodded.  “I understand.”

Dean didn’t think anything but a stay in a psych ward could ever properly prepare a person for meeting someone like Abbadon, but Cas’ poker face would come in handy.

A couple of minutes later and they were pulling onto a dirt access road behind Charlie.  Cas had gone back to fiddling with his tie, but gave up again when the little 370z started bouncing around on the uneven ground.  There was a black limo parked up ahead, and Dean would recognize Bobby’s frame leaning up against it anywhere.  He didn’t recognize the man with him, though, and wondered what was up.

Dean eased the car to a stop, but made no move to get out.  This was it.  The point of no return.  His grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

“Dean?”

“I — I’m sorry, okay?” he said in a rush.  “Just… It should be me goin’ in there, not you.”

“I already told you —”

“And I want you to know that —” God why was this so hard?  “I wasn’t pretending.”

Cas took a moment to process this; even Dean knew he was all over the place.  But he must have gotten it, because he gifted Dean with that smile again, like the one in the picture.  It was a goddamn supernova in the car.  Then Cas put his hand on Dean’s shoulder again, just like he had after stitching him up, and for a second Dean actually thought everything would be okay.  

“Neither was I.”

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Castiel climbed out of the car, and took a moment to clear his mind.  Too many things were clattering around in there, Dean most especially, and he couldn’t afford distractions.  He had a job to do; he needed to be thinking about how to transform into a Russian criminal between here and the tarmac.  They tended toward rash and unpredictable, which was the complete opposite of Castiel, but Ilya Petrovich had managed a prolific career without ever being caught.  That took meticulous planning and attention to detail, which Castiel excelled at.

So: half Gabriel, half himself.  All he had to do was keep his nerves in check and he could do this.

If he could keep his nerves in check.

And get this god forsaken tie straight.

Dean came around the back of the car and set the replica at Castiel’s feet, then batted his hands away.  “Lemme.”

Castiel huffed, drawing a smile out of Dean.  He tried not to be annoyed when Dean tied it perfectly the first time.  When he finished, Dean let his hands drift down Castiel’s chest, straightening imaginary wrinkles and sending Castiel’s heart careening around his chest like a terrified rabbit.

Dean cleared his throat.  “You look—”

“Like an international man of mystery,” Charlie butted in, slinging an arm around Castiel’s neck.  “Let’s go, 007.”

“Last chance, Cas.”

“I am called Ilya.  Who is this Cas?”

Dean snorted.  “Asshole.”

“You two done makin’ googly eyes at each other?” Bobby called.  “Or can we get this show on the road?”

Heat crept up his neck, and he reminded himself that Ilya Petrovich probably hadn’t blushed since he was ten years old.

“This is an ol’ buddy of mine, Rufus.  We used to run together back when y’all were still in diapers, and he’s agreed to lend a hand tonight.”

The two men were just visible in the Nissan’s headlamps.  Rufus was a tall black man dressed as a chauffeur, with a perpetually irritated expression, and hands that moved of their own accord when he spoke.  

“He means ‘buddy’ in the least literal sense possible, of course.  It’s been over twenty years since we set eyes on each other.”

“Why’d you agree to help then?” Dean said.

“He bribed me.”

Rufus reached in the driver window and pulled out a large bottle of liquor.  He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“With a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue?” Jo said.

“No, with a clean slate.  The scotch was so I wouldn’t shoot him on sight and risk wasting all that alcohol.  “Although for setting foot inside a five mile radius of Abbadon, he ought to be buying me stock in Mr. Walker.”

“Guys,” Charlie said, tapping and swiping away at her tablet.  “Abbadon’s pilot has put in a request to land.  We’re running out of time.”

“Jo, take the van.  Dean, take the car.  You know what to do.  Charlie and me’ll go in the limo.”

Dean looked at Castiel one more time, his eyes searching.  

Castiel nodded once.  “Go.”

Dean went, and Castiel climbed into the limo behind Charlie, setting the prototype replica on the floor between his feet.  Castiel had never seen the inside of a limousine before.  It was elegant, with wood paneling and a small bar.  It was different though, facing the opposite direction, and if he had to travel that way for very long, he would probably get carsick.

“You remember what to do?” Bobby said.

Castiel nodded.  

“And don’t forget to wait for Jo,” Charlie said.  She’d traded her tablet for a laptop, and she never stopped typing.  

“I know.”

“You look awfully calm, Doc.  You’re not about to go bananas on me, are you?”

Castiel  _ was  _ calm. He was aware of the stakes, but they helped him focus more than stress him out.  He had a goal, and a deadline, and a vague set of rules.  A fervent desire to prevent his life’s work from ending up in the hands of a madwoman, and save Sam’s life.  These things would have to be enough to see him through.  Castiel was well aware of what he could accomplish if he set his mind to it.  

He leaned forward and looked the older man in the eye.  He wasn’t asking Castiel if he was okay; he was asking him if he planned to bail.  “What happens after I make the deal?”

Bobby leaned back in his seat, looking pleased.  “One thing at a time, Doc.  One thing at a time.”

In a matter of minutes they were on the tarmac, Rufus’ credentials allowing them direct access to the private hangars.  

Okay, so maybe Castiel wasn’t quite as calm as he’d thought.  

The window separating the front from the back rolled down.  “Hangar forty-three, right?”

“Yep,” Charlie said.  

“Looks like a car’s there already.  A blue Beemer.”

“That ho,” Charlie said, turning around to look out the windscreen.  “I knew I was chasing the right car.  How did she give me the slip?”

“What matters is she’s here now,” Bobby said.  “Which means we were right, and this hasn’t all been for nothin’.”

“Who?” Rufus demanded.

Bobby sighed.  “Bela Talbot.”

“Why that little—”

Castiel was anxious to meet Abbadon, but Bela had tried to kill him not too long ago.  The thought of foiling her well-laid plans was…motivating.  He turned to look out the front in time to witness a private jet taxi up to the BMW and stop.  Bela climbed out of the driver’s seat.  She’d traded in her evening gown for a snappy pant suit and black overcoat, but Castiel would recognize her anywhere.  She looked confused by the limo’s approach, but made no move.

“Oh, Castiel!” Charlie said, putting her laptop on the seat between them.  She dug around in her jean’s pockets for a second before holding out her hand to  him.  “I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

It was an ear bud.

“Guess it’s official,” she said, smiling.  “You’re one of us now.”

“Yeah, yeah, welcome to the madhouse,” Bobby said.  “Now get the lead out.”

Castiel put the comm in his ear and took a moment to school his features into something more criminal.  Gabriel used to tease him about his stoic expression, but he thought it would come in handy tonight. 

Charlie bounced over to the other side, next to Bobby, so she wouldn’t be seen when the door opened.  The seconds between Rufus’ door shutting and Castiel’s door opening were interminable.  He tugged on his tie to get it out of his system, because Ilya Petrovich had no use for such nervous mannerisms.

And he had to  _ be  _ Ilya Petrovich.

With a deep breath, he stepped out onto the tarmac, replica in hand.  

 

#  @

 

Vantage points were slim pickings around the airport, especially considering Dean was packing a long-range rifle. His options were to lay in the grass in between runways and hope no one saw him, or find a way on top of the hangars and hope no one saw him.  He’d be less visible from the ground, but his line of sight on Cas would be terrible.  From the rooftop he’d be more visible, but he’d have a clear line on Cas.  It wasn’t much of a decision.

It was windy up there, and colder than it was on the ground, so Dean was glad he wore his jacket.  It was the only thing he was glad about, though.  Covering Cas from a distance did not fill him with nearly as much zen as being at his side would.  Gun in hand or not, Dean felt like the evening had spiraled out of his control, and letting Cas climb in that limo by himself was one of the hardest things Dean had ever done.  

The jet had arrived already, its sleek white fuselage gleaming in the cold light of the lamps mounted on the side of the building.  The wings and nose were tipped in crimson, and there were six oval windows down the length.  The plane could easily accommodate a dozen adults.  A dozen well-armed adults.  That wasn’t counting the pilots.

Dean really hoped there weren’t a dozen on board.

He only had a few moments to set up before Cas stepped out of the limo — just enough time for Dean to witness the look on Bela’s face when she recognized Cas.  It wasn’t everyday someone was able to surprise her, and Cas kept his expression perfectly blank, which made it that much better.  

“I’ve got eyes on you, Cas,” Dean said as he fine tuned the sight mounted on top of the rifle.   He’d had to set it up on his left side — not ideal — but if he had to fire it, the force of the recoil pummeling his wounded right shoulder would put him on his ass. 

_ “I’m approaching from the south,”  _ Jo said.   _ “I’ll wait to see what she does with the prototype before I can make my move.” _

“ _ Copy that,” _ Charlie said.   _ “I’ve got audio picking up off the mic I hid on the boutonniere.  I’m syncing it with our comms as we speak.” _

The jet door opened, and a hydraulic staircase descended.  Six beefy men in black suits exited before Abbadon appeared dramatically in the opening.  Tall and slender, with vibrant red hair and nearly white skin,  she was clad head to toe in soft-looking black leather, and walked with a silver-topped cane.  Dean doubted that she needed it, but it lent her a certain aura of…crazy.  But not nearly as much as her eyes.  They were big and dark, the lids filled in with smoky black makeup, and her gaze was cold and calculating as she took in Cas, and then Bela.  

Her henchmen arranged themselves in a semi circle around the area between the plane and the cars, all of them standing at ease — at least three were former Army, by their stance, another Mossad — but Dean had no doubt that each had a small arsenal hidden beneath their tailored suit jackets.  Even Bela looked ready for a fight.  Her right hand hovered over her jacket pocket as she made her way around the front of her car toward Cas, ready to draw her pistol at a moment’s notice.    

Abbadon stopped less than a yard away from him, her hips cocked out to the side and her head canted.  “I don’t remember inviting you to this party,” she said.  Her voice was a little distorted in Dean’s ear, the mic picking up ambient noise from the airport as well.  “So who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?”

Cas had that poker face firmly in place, his body language surprisingly relaxed.  It had been interesting, watching Cas come out of his shell over the course of the evening.  But now that he had a task to complete, a goal, it was like looking at a completely different person.  It was unnerving, in a really attractive sort of way. 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Bela said.  Her voice was even more faint; Dean struggled to hear it.

Cas completely ignored Bela.  “My name is Ilya Petrovich, and I understand you are in market for new energy source.”

“Is that so?” Abbadon said, laughing in surprise.  She looked to Bela, then eyeballed the replica in Cas’s hand.  “Looks like you’ve got some competition, B.  Unfortunately for you, Mr. Petrovich, I have trust issues.  I tend to shoot people I don’t trust, and I’ve never even heard of you.”

“Neither have I,” Bela said, sauntering forward.  Her voice cleared considerably.  “And I’ve heard of everyone.”

“I vill take this as compliment,” Cas said, smiling a little.  It didn’t look like a Cas smile.  It was sly, artful, two things Dean never could have associated with him before this moment.  

“Well, aren’t you sassy,” Abbadon said, eyes glittering with mirth.

“I think he’s conning you,” Bela said.  “The last time I saw him he was unconscious in Sandover Industrial’s parking garage while I made off with the cold fusion prototype.”

Cas turned to Bela.  “Is that what happened?”

Bela scowled.

He turned back to Abbadon.  “You never hear of me because I never get caught.”

“Or,” Abbadon said, dragging out the syllable, “maybe you’re full of shit.”

“I have two rules,” Cas continued, impressively unfazed.  “Never use same crew twice, and no names.” He paused, his expression pensive.  Then looked at Bela.  “Three rules.  Never use shady middleman.”

Charlie snorted.  “ _ Gah, I wish I could see her face.  Killin’ it Cas.” _

“But you’ve told me your name.”

“Consider it a peace offering.  You now have something of mine which I hold very dear.”

Abbadon considered his words, then raised her cane and jabbed Cas in the chest with it.  “You’ve earned yourself two minutes, Mr. Petrovich.  Impress me, or they’ll be fishing you out of the Potomac.”

Dean’s stomach knotted, and he had to force himself to breathe.  Cas really was doing great, but that didn’t mean he was safe.  

“Zurich, 2008,” Cas said, never breaking eye contact.  “The Hague, 2002.  Paris, 2010.  Ah, my personal favorite, Rio, 2006.  That was fun job.  Those are just the — what is word?   _ Highlights _ .”

Bela resisted the urge for about fifteen seconds before pulling out her phone.  “I don’t believe it.”

Dean made a mental note to never pick on Charlie for her attention to detail ever again.

“ _ I’m in the car, _ ” Jo said, her voice low, “ _ but I still need a couple minutes to work my magic.” _

“ _ Copy that, _ ” Bobby said.   _ “Keep ‘em talkin’, Doc.” _

“It’s common knowledge that none of those heists have been claimed,” Abbadon said.  She raised her cane again, this time tracing the line of Cas’ neck before letting it rest on his shoulder.  Cas stood his ground; Dean wanted to rip her throat out.  There was something both threatening and intimate about the action, and Dean felt violated on Cas’ behalf.  “Anyone with a laptop and a rainy afternoon can put all that together.  Give me something real, Mr. Petrovich.  I’ve already been here twice as long as I’d like, and this is beginning to bore me.”

“Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa in person?” Cas said, not missing a beat.  “It is not as large as people think.”

Abbadon arched a sculpted brow.  “The Mona Lisa is in the Louvre.”

Cas smiled that smile again, and leaned forward, letting the cane press into his neck.  “Is it?”

Abbadon’s face lit up with what appeared to be genuine amusement, before she burst into laughter.  It was a mad, unsettling sound, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a very, very bad thing.  He adjusted his grip on the trigger, just in case.

“This is absurd,” Bela said, glaring at Castiel.  “You can’t honestly believe this man has the Mona Lisa.”

Abbadon’s laughter trickled off slowly.  She brought the cane down to rest on the top of her boot, and Dean could breathe again.  It wouldn’t be the first cane he’d seen with a six-inch stiletto hidden inside, and it had been entirely too close to vital parts for Dean’s comfort.

“Alright, Mr. Petrovich,” she said, still smiling.  “Please, tell me what’s in the case.”

“The real cold fusion prototype, of course.”

Bela scoffed.  “He’s lying.  I have the prototype.”

“Well, you can’t both have it, can you?”

“When have I ever not delivered?” Bela demanded, her frustration evident.  “Why would I show up with product I was not one hundred percent certain of?  My reputation is all I have; do you think I would jeopardize it unnecessarily?”  She wheeled on Cas.  “I stole it from him, and he’s just trying to—  Actually, why are you here?”

Cas arched a brow.  “I thought this was obvious?”

“No,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.  “You were working with Dean Winchester.  I have it on good authority that he intended to use the prototype as ransom in exchange for his brother.”

Dean held his breath again.  This was the weakest part of the plan.  Convincing Abbadon that Bela was wrong.  Everything hinged on this.

“I assume you mean the man you shot,” Cas said flatly.  “I call him Mr. Green.  No names, remember?  And I was not working with him.  I was working  _ for  _ him.  He hire me to help get brother back.  You deprive me of my employer before he pay me.  What was I supposed to do?”

“Why not bring it to Crowley?” Bela said.

Cas scoffed.  “What value does brother’s life have to me?  I did job; I would prefer more traditional payment.  Like money wired into my account in Cayman Islands.  I have it on good authority,” he said mimicking Bela’s words, “that the price tag on this contraption is quite high.”

“Too bad that,” Bela said, pointing to the case in Cas’ hand, “is rubbish.  The real one is in the backseat of my car.”

“No,” Cas said.  “The case you took from me in the garage is in the backseat of your car.  This is prototype.”

“Boring,” Abbadon groaned, throwing her head back.  “I think we need a demonstration!”  She snapped her fingers at Bela.  “Go on, fetch it.”

“Jo, are you clear?” Dean said, aiming the rifle towards the BMW.  “Cuz you’re about to have company.”

“ _ Uhhh… _ ” she grunted.  “ _ I’m under the car. _ ”

“ _ Cuttin’ it a little close, ain’t ya?” _ Bobby said.

Dean angled the rifle back toward Cas and Abbadon.  He had the case on the ground, and was in the process of opening it.  Abbadon was getting antsy.  They needed to wrap this up before she decided to kill them both and settle the argument herself.

“You’re doin’ great, Cas,” Dean said.  “Home stretch.”

Bela rejoined Cas and Abbadon a moment later, also setting her prototype on the ground and opening it.  She flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.  

She cut it off, then back on again.  Still nothing.

That sly grin curling Cas’ lips, he flipped the switch on his.  Dean wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen, but inside a minute a light so bright it hurt to look at shone from the case.  The darkness left behind when Cas shut it off was equally blinding.  Dean blinked rapidly to readjust his eyes to the gloom.  A heavy grunt had Dean’s pulse quickening, the fact that he couldn’t see making it that much worse.  

It took Dean far longer than he liked to find Cas through the rainbow-colored spots in his vision, and only the fact that every single one of Abbadon’s henchmen had guns in-hand kept Dean from blowing Bela away.  Cas was on his knees, hands behind his head, blood trickling down from his hairline.  Bela had her little peashooter aimed at Cas’ head.

Dean’s finger itched on the trigger.

“How did you do it?” she demanded.  Her voice was steady enough, but she was pissed.  Embarrassed and about to lose an ass load of money to boot — Dean would be pretty fucking angry, too.

“Does it matter?” Abbadon said.  “Look, I don’t really give a rat’s ass which of you I pay, so long as I’m in the air sometime in the next five minutes.”

“In that case—” Bela said, raising the gun slightly, preparing to fire.

Dean flipped on the laser sight, the tiny red dot dancing around Bela’s chest before settling directly over her heart.

Abbadon laughed.

“You didn’t think I come out here alone, did you?”

Bela looked down.  “You have got to be kidding me.”

Dean had never seen anyone look so irate in his entire life, and he was enjoying every second of it.  She looked like she might shoot Cas anyway,  if the fire in her eyes and the determined set of her jaw were any indicators, but gave up in the end.   Holding her hands out to the side, she dangled the pistol from the index finger of her left hand.  She backed away for good measure.

“Congratulations, Mr. Petrovich,” Abbadon said.  “Where shall I wire the money?”

Cas stood up and handed her a slip of paper from his jacket pocket.  He straightened his jacket, and Dean could tell he was resisting the urge to tug on his tie.

Abbadon took her phone out and started tapping away.  The whole process took less than two minutes.  “Check your account.”

Cas took out his phone and looked busy.

_ “The funds have cleared, Cas,” _ Charlie said. “ _ $275 million, in the bank _ .”

Cas nodded, then handed her what Dean knew was a flash drive.  “The doctor’s research.  We are done here.”

Abbadon grinned, and Dean got goosebumps, even from his perch up on the roof.  “I like you, Mr. Petrovich.  If you ever want more steady employment…”

Cas chuckled.  “A true compliment, but I must decline.  Enjoy your flight.”

“Suit yourself.  See you around, B.”

Abbadon sauntered back to the jet, one of her henchmen collecting Cas’ prototype.  Cas turned to watch Bela, his posture still relaxed, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder where the nerdy, awkward guy he’d been flirting with for the last three weeks had gone.  He kept the rifle trained on Bela, because Jo was still under the car and Bobby would never get to Cas in time should Bela attempt to do something rash.

“Are you going to call off your man?”

“ _ Alright, Doc _ ,” Bobby said.  “ _ Offer her the money for the prototype and her silence.” _

“That depends,” Cas said, not missing a beat.

“On what?”

“On your ability to be discreet.  And your word you will not shoot me until you hear my offer.”

Dean watched as Bela tried to put the pieces together.  She was at least smart enough to know when she’d been painted into a corner.

“You have my word.”

Cas waited a moment before raising his hand.  Dean switched off the laser.

“I’m listening.”

“I am willing to pay you a considerable sum of money for your prototype and your silence.”

She put it together real fast after that, if her expression was anything to go by.  Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, Bela looked toward where the jet had been, then back to Cas.  “Unbelievable.  I had the real one the whole time.  You just sold Abbadon a fake!  Are you mad?”

“You vant the money; I vant prototype.  I think this is called a vin-vin?”

“Yeah, until Abbadon hunts us both down and scalps us.”

“Do ve have a deal?” Cas said, unshaken.

Bela visibly calmed herself.  “I want the full amount.  $275 million.”

“And?”

“And this never happened.”

Cas smiled.  “Your account number?”

Bela rattled off a chain of random letters and numbers at least twenty digits long.

“Did you get that, Miss Granger?”

_ “I did indeed, _ ” Charlie piped up cheerfully.  Cas knew the way to her heart, for sure.  “ _ Transferring funds now. _ ”

“Check your account,” Cas said to Bela.

Bela set the pistol on the ground and took out her phone.  “Looks like we’re square, Mr. Petrovich.”

“ _ Korosho _ .  Let us never cross paths again, Ms. Talbot.”

Bela was already backing away toward her car.  “I can drink to that.”

Dean didn’t release the breath he’d been holding until Bela drove away.

 

@@

 

As soon as the BMW was out of sight, Charlie climbed out of the limo and launched herself at Castiel.  He barely had time to catch her.  His arms trembled, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and his head throbbed from where Bela had hit him with the pistol, but aside from that, the scene could not have played out any better.  He’d done it.

Charlie grabbed him by the arms and shook him, her face all scrunched up.  “You were so fucking awesome!”

Castiel smiled.

“Easy there, Scooter,” Bobby said, joining them at a much more sedate pace.  He handed Castiel a blue handkerchief, his expression bordering on fond.  “How’s your head, Doc?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Castiel replied, dabbing at the trickle of blood with the handkerchief.  

Rufus decided to grace them with his presence.  “You got giant coconut balls, son.  Dumber than a sack of hammers, but you got giant coconut balls.”

“Thank you?”

Bobby and Rufus both started chuckling simultaneously, only to stop and glare at each other. 

Castiel bet that was an interesting tale.

Rufus cleared his throat.  “As lovely as this little rendezvous has been, I’m gonna hit the road before Abbadon realizes you slipped her a mickey and unleashes hell on yo’ asses.”  He turned to Bobby.  “We good?”

“We’re good,” Bobby said.  He held out a hand. 

“Oh hell,” Rufus said, rolling his eyes.  He shook Bobby’s hand.  “Don’t you darken my doorway again, Singer.”

“Get outta here you old fart.”

Charlie’s van came flying in out of nowhere, barely avoiding sideswiping the departing limousine, and screeching to a halt.  Jo hopped out.  She looked less hostile than usual, which Castiel took as a good sign.  She said nothing to him, offering only a curt nod in greeting.  It was enough; had she found fault with his performance, he had little doubt she would hesitate to inform him.

“Alright,” Bobby said, clapping his hands together once.  “Let’s get this show on the road.  The sooner we can get Sam back, the better.”

“I’m about two minutes out, Bobby,” Dean said, his whiskey voice soothing in Castiel’s ear.  Becoming Ilya Petrovich had been easier than Castiel predicted, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without knowing that Dean was watching his back.  Bela would have killed him twice today without Dean.  Castiel would not soon forget it.

Bobby looked at Castiel.  “You still in this?”

Castiel froze.  It had never occurred to him that he could walk away at this point.  His work was done.  The replicas were made, the original in their possession.  All that was left was to make the ransom exchange, and he wasn’t needed for that.  Not really.  Dean would keep his word and ensure that he got his prototype back.  But now that the idea had been brought to his attention, the thought of leaving these people — perhaps for good — was distressing.  He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he had never felt so included.  

In fact, until tonight, Castiel hadn’t realized how isolated he was.  Anna was good company, but she had her own hobbies and social groups, and he didn’t have any friends.  Sure he got along well enough with his colleagues, but the relationships never grew outside of the lab, and he hadn’t even considered dating since he ended things with Ezekiel.  Not until Dean waltzed into his life with that devil-may-care grin.

He nodded.  “I’m in.”

_ “You don’t have to do this, Cas,” _ Dean’s voice growled over the comms.

“I know.”

Dean grumbled.

Bobby’s lips twitched.  “Doc, you’ll go with Dean to make the exchange.  I don’t like the idea of sending him in there without back up, and I’ve got something else for Jo to take care of. Charlie, you know what to do.”

Charlie nodded vigorously, and Castiel wondered what they’d talked about in the limo.

“Dean, I’m gonna leave the Doc here for you to pick up.  Let us know when you hear from Crowley so we can start finalizing these plans.  I’d like to be buying Sam breakfast today.”

_ “Copy that,” _ Dean said.

After all this fuss, Castiel would like to at least meet Sam at some point, breakfast or not.

“I can second that,” Charlie said, bouncing on the soles of her feet.  “You ready?”

Jo was unimpressed by Charlie’s enthusiasm.  She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond, but Charlie cut her off.

“If you say you were born ready, I swear to God—”

Castiel couldn’t help but smile as he watched them climb in Charlie’s van, the girls arguing over who was going to drive and Bobby looking like he wanted to knock their heads together.  It was very…domestic.

He spotted the Nissan’s headlamps coming down the access road minutes after the others departed, and was ambushed by a vicious swarm of butterflies.  Being in enclosed places with Dean did funny things to Castiel’s equilibrium, despite their bond, or maybe because of it.  

They’d had a moment, and thinking about what would happen next twisted his stomach in knots.  Castiel hadn’t dwelled on it — he’d needed to focus on not getting killed — but in his own way, Dean had confessed his affection for him, and Castiel had reciprocated.  He felt a little delirious, just thinking about it.  Whatever this thing was that he had with Dean, it was unconventional and possibly ill-conceived, but it was real, too.  He felt more connected to Dean than anyone he’d ever met.

At least now he didn’t have to wonder if Dean felt it too.

Castiel took a deep breath and tugged on his tie as Dean climbed out of the car.  Dean scowled, everything about him on edge as he beelined for Castiel.  For an insane moment Castiel thought he might hit him, Dean looked so fierce.  

But Dean didn’t hit him.  Instead he dragged Castiel in for a crushing embrace, arms wrapped around him so tightly he couldn’t have breathed even if his lungs remembered how.  Castiel stood there, assaulted by the scent of Dean and so shocked he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You can hug me back,” Dean said, the words low and gruff.

So he did, and Castiel would swear until the day he died he felt the tension bleed out of Dean’s body.  They stood together on the tarmac, wrapped in each other’s arms, just  _ holding  _ for longer than was strictly necessary, but Castiel wasn’t going to be the one to pull away.  Dean was like gravity, drawing Castiel further and further into his orbit on an inevitable collision course.  

Castiel hadn’t the slightest idea how to break free, but he was more certain than he had any right to be that breaking free was the last thing he wanted.

Dean stepped back, clearing his throat roughly, but he kept his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, like he thought Castiel might try to make a break for it.

“You scared the shit out of me, man,” Dean said.  Gingerly he brushed Castiel’s hair aside to inspect the wound where Bela’s pistol had made contact.  It stung, drawing a wince out of Castiel, but it was much less painful than the previous head wound had been, and it was definitely better than being dead.  “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” he replied, touched by his concern.  “I’ll have a headache for a couple of days, but otherwise I am unharmed.”

Dean looked unconvinced, but dropped it.  “Let’s hit the road then, before anyone comes poking around.”

Castiel packed up the prototype, grateful to have his work back in his possession.  Jo had disconnected the switch from the palladium cathode, which prevented it from functioning.  They had done an excellent job on the replicas, too.  He couldn’t tell the difference between them at all.  Even the cases were identical.  

Dean was waiting for him in the car with the engine running when he dropped into the passenger seat, choosing to put the prototype on the floor behind Dean rather than the trunk.  Castiel buckled in as Dean put the car in gear and turned the car back the way he’d come.  

“Call Sam’s number, would ya?  So I can drive?”

Castiel did as he asked, putting the call on speaker phone.  It rang four times.

_ “You survived Abbadon.  I’m impressed, _ ” Crowley drawled.  “ _ What did it cost you?” _

“We’ve got what you want.  Where’s Sam?”

_ “Never were much for witty repartee _ .” Crowley sighed.  “ _ I’ll text you the coordinates.  You have two hours.” _

The line went dead.

Castiel looked at Dean, who was white-knuckling the steering wheel again, and doing that thing with his jaw that made Castiel feel sorry for his teeth.  Dean really hated Crowley.

The phone vibrated in his hand, a text from Sam’s phone.  

“Go ahead and open it,” Dean said, his voice tight.  “Forward it to Charlie.”

“ _ Tidwells, Virginia _ ?” Charlie said.  “ _ Weirdest name ever.” _

“How far away is it?” Dean said.

“ _ Two hours, give or take?  Probably less considering it’s the middle of the night.” _

“Sonofabitch,” Dean swore.  “Crowley’s only giving us two hours.  He didn’t go into detail about what would happen if we’re late, but let’s assume the worst.”

“ _ This guy needs to die in a house fire, _ ” Charlie said.

“ _ That can be arranged, _ ” Jo said.

Castiel didn’t doubt it for a second.

“I might just take you up on that,” Dean said, his scowl easing.  Jo had a funny way of saying things that calmed him.

“ _ I’m sending you your route now _ ,” Charlie said.  “ _ The first half is interstate.  If you make good time it will give you a little wiggle room.” _

“Copy that.  I’ll keep you posted.”

The phone vibrated again, this time the screen loading a map of northern Virginia.  A blue line extended from the dot marked Dulles International airport, south down I-95 and then sharply east onto the narrow peninsula created by the Rappahannock and Potomac rivers.  The small town was right on the Potomac.  Castiel had never heard of it.

Dean exhaled deeply as he took his earbud out and dropped it in the cup holder in the center console.  Castiel watched with interest as he deliberately worked each finger off the steering wheel.  Dean had nice hands.  Strong, calloused, confident.  Hands that hit like hammers and tied bowties perfectly on the first try; they were as paradoxical as the rest of him.

“I get tired of having them in my ear all the time,” Dean said.  He shifted in his seat, and put the car in fifth as they merged back onto the Beltway.

Castiel kept watching.  There was something on Dean’s mind, but prying would be unwelcome; if Dean wanted to tell him, he would.  He took out his own earbud, dropping it in the cup holder with Dean’s, then switched off the tiny microphone Charlie had hidden in his boutonniere.  He wasn’t sure if it was still transmitting, but he wanted to ensure that whatever Dean had to say stayed between them.

“I’m taking you home,” Dean said, his tone brooking no argument.

Castiel cocked his head to the side.  He should have seen this coming. “No, you’re not.”

“Driver’s making an executive decision.  You’re going home.”

“We do not have time for this,” Castiel said, leveling Dean with his best glare.  

“No, we don’t.  So.  End of discussion.”

The wall came up again.  Dean tried hard to keep him at arm’s length, and after everything they’d been through, it was infuriating.  Ridiculous, too.  Castiel took a moment to soothe the frustration rising in his chest. He looked at Dean, hoping for some sort of insight, but Dean wouldn’t meet his eye, choosing instead to glare out the windshield, jaw set.   

“I don’t understand why—”

When Dean met his gaze, his eyes were haunted.  “You really don’t.  And if you had any sense in that genius head of yours, you’d be—”

“Running the other way, as fast as I can?”

Dean scowled.

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation already.”

“We have.  And seein’ how you’ve almost died twice already today, I’m a little surprised we’re having it again.  I mean, what’re you even still doin’ here, Cas?”

Castiel bit back an exasperated groan.  “Is there anything I can say that will convince you I want to be here?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does, actually.  Unless you’re questioning my motives.”  Cas took a deep breath.  “Are you?”

“Cas—”

“ _ Dean _ .”

“No.  I’m not.” Dean said, clearly struggling.  “But, this is my problem, and the last thing I wanted was to drag you into it, okay?”

“For the last time:  You didn’t drag me into anything.  I volunteered.  End of discussion.”

Dean snorted.  “You’re one stubborn sonofabitch, you know that?”

Castiel arched a brow and stared at Dean.  “You’re kidding right?”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing, Cas.” 

“So am I.”

“But you don’t have to.  You could be at home in bed right now.  Safe.  Far, far away from Crowley.”

Crowley.  Dean said he used to work for him.  He wouldn’t be the first guy to feel resentful toward a former employer, but this was more than that.  They had  _ history _ .

“Then make me understand.”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near Crowley.  It’s that simple.”

“That’s not really an explanation.”

“Can’t you just trust me on this?”

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear that I trust you with my life.”

“Then why are you diggin’ your heels in, man?”

“Because I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

Dean’s jaw snapped shut on whatever response he’d lined up, and a pained expression blanketed his face.

“You weren’t this adamant in your objections to my involvement with Abbadon,” Cas pointed out, moderating his tone.  Dean was already on edge, and he didn’t want this to turn into a full-blown argument, regardless of how irritated they were with each other.  

Dean flexed his hands on the steering wheel again.  “Crowley’s different.”

“In what way?”

“He’s just —” Dean struggled for words.  “Abbadon’s a wild card, you know?  She’s twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag, but she doesn’t really give a flying fuck as long as she gets whatever it is she wants, which changes about every three and a half minutes.  You never know what to expect.  So you prepare for everything.”

“And Crowley?”

“Crowley…  _ squeezes _ .”

Castiel’s pulse  quickened; Dean wasn’t angry, he was afraid.  He tried to pass it off as anger because that’s what Dean did.  He got pissed off.  But Castiel didn’t want his fury.  He wanted Dean to return the trust Castiel had in him, and he’d seen enough glimpses of what Dean really looked like beneath the layers of bravado and guilt to know Dean was capable of it, if he wanted to.

“All the more reason for me to be with you.  Together we—”

“Dammit, Cas, I used to kill for him!” Dean shouted, his voice utterly destroyed and full of so much shame they both might drown in it.  “He finds that weak spot, and just—  and before you know it…”  He shook his head.  “He gets inside your head, takes what you love and twists it until you can’t recognize it anymore.  Makes you forget who you are, what you stand for.”

The silence that fell was deafening.  

Castiel had suspected a violent past.  Everything about Dean screamed military-style training, from the way he fought to his familiarity with firearms and his cool demeanor under pressure, and Castiel wasn’t naive enough to think that working for a man like Crowley was  _ clean _ .  What surprised him was that Dean had said it aloud.  He couldn’t imagine what it had cost Dean to make the confession.  All that guilt and self-loathing Castiel witnessed at the hotel was brought into laser-sharp focus.

If Dean meant to push him away with his declaration, he failed.  

“Do you understand now why I don’t want you anywhere near him?” Dean asked, his voice still hoarse.  “I can’t—”

“You believe he will leverage me against you, because—”

“He knows me,” Dean said, cutting him off.  “When he sees me with you— ”  

There was an awful lot Dean wasn’t saying with those two innocuous statements.

Castiel took a deep breath.  “Can I tell you what I know?”

Dean looked like he wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out.

“I know the burden of guilt you carry is crushing, and that the work you do now is some form of…absolution.  I know you have astonishingly low self-worth, despite being constantly surrounded by people who love you, and that the thought of anyone making any kind of sacrifice on your behalf is unconscionable.  You’re so ashamed of who you used to be, you can’t see the man you’ve become.” Castiel said slowly, pausing long enough for Dean to look at him.  “He’s why I’m here.”

Dean looked away again, swallowing hard.  Castiel had never seen so much pain in one expression, and was overcome by the desire to take it away.  Dean didn’t deserve the abuse he heaped on himself.  Castiel wanted to make him see that.

“I’m not who you think I am, Cas,” Dean whispered.

Conjuring all his bravery, Castiel reached out and gently pulled Dean’s hand off the steering wheel, pressing his palm to the back it and locking their fingers together.  Dean’s eyebrows shot up and his breath caught, but, to Castiel’s delight, he didn’t try to unclasp their hands.

“I know exactly who you are, Dean Winchester, and if you think you’re going to scare me off that easily, you’re an idiot.”

Dean looked like he was waging war against himself.  “Just… promise me you’ll follow my lead.  And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course.”

“And, just so we’re clear, I’m really not happy about this.”

Castiel’s lips twitched.  “Duly noted.”

“Is this chickflick moment officially over?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”  Dean nodded, his body relaxing, just a bit.  “Go ahead and catch some shut-eye.  I’ll wake you up when we’re close.”

“I believe we’ve found something on which we agree,” Castiel said, leaning back into his seat and closing his eyes.  He’d ever been so tired in his entire life.

Dean didn’t have a quippy response waiting, and he didn’t let go of Castiel’s hand.

 

@@@@

 

They made good time on the Interstate.  The roads were empty, the only sounds were the whir of tires on asphalt and Cas breathing in his sleep, a gentle, constant reminder that Dean wasn’t alone.  Dean felt raw, overstimulated, his anxiety over Crowley warring with his bewilderment over Castiel.  He kept wondering what happened to the awkward guy who practically ran away from him at the cafe, and how he’d managed to turn into the stubborn, fearless man next to him.  Put him in a tux and give the man a mission and he morphed into a super spy.  It was like Cas had discovered a whole new side of himself.

And his faith in Dean was so rock-solid, it made that quiet, persistent ache throb.  Not the hole in his shoulder, the one that lived in his chest behind his lungs.  The one that never stopped, no matter what he did to make up for his sins.  For all of Cas’ conviction, Dean didn’t think he’d ever deserve that kind of…whatever it was.

Cas shifted in his seat, his expression twisting into an unhappy scowl as his body climbed to wakefulness.  He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with clumsy fingertips, and Dean’s heart swelled.  Did Cas always look like this when he woke up, rumpled and unhappy, like a miffed cat? Or was he grumpy because he was curled up in the passenger seat of a sports car?

Cas waking up in bed, white sheets setting his golden skin aglow, was a place Dean had not given his mind permission to explore.  Especially not since the image his brain provided was definitely from a horizontal position.

But still.  

Cas smiled when he realized their fingers were still locked together, eyes crinkling, lips curling up.  The sun would be up before long, turning the light blue and purple and making everything softer.  Dean’s pulse quickened.

“Welcome back, sleepy head.”

Cas huffed a laugh.  “I think, when this is over, I will sleep for a week.”

Dean smiled.  “You get used to it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,”  Cas said.  “Are we nearly there?”

“About fifteen miles out,” Dean replied, stealing glances.  Now that it was light enough to really see, he couldn’t seem to stop looking at him.  “I was just about to wake you.”

Cas plucked the phone from the cup holder with his free hand, as unwilling to let go of Dean as Dean was to be let go of. Jo was right: they didn’t let themselves have nice things — or even basic, human things, sometimes, like physical contact.  There wasn’t even anything sexual about it, just… it grounded him.  And Dean wanted as much of it as he could get while there was still time.

“It looks like the coordinates are right on the Potomac.  Probably in a marina of some kind.  At this hour, the activity will be less likely to draw unwanted attention in a commercial setting.  Unless Crowley owns property in Tidwells.”

“Not likely.”  Dean snorted.  “He’s more the Italian villa sort.”

Dean caught a flash in the rear view mirror, two white dots of headlamps in the distance.  The road was flat and featureless, and Dean had been vigilant.  He doubted it was a cop coming out of hiding, and he’d kept it as close to the speed limit as he could without losing time.  It was close enough to rush-hour traffic that a morning commuter or mail truck wasn’t completely out of the question.  But it was Sunday, and his spidey senses were tingling.

He glanced at Cas, who had worked himself into a more upright position, but still looked like he wanted to crawl into bed, then back at the mirror.

Whoever he was, he was coming up fast.

It could just be someone in a hurry.

Another minute of driving, and the other car was close enough that Dean could tell the make and model, a newer Dodge Charger, yellow with black racing stripes on the hood, but even that was tough to distinguish when the driver flipped on his high beams.  Blinding white light filled the car, forcing both Dean and Cas to squint.

Dean let go of Cas’ hand, and gripped the steering wheel.  That caught Cas’ attention.  Like he was tuned into Dean’s tension, Cas sat up straighter, bracing his arm against the door.  Dean slowed down, flashing his lights, but the other car made no move to go around him.

“Why doesn’t he pass us?” Cas asked, his voice tight.

“I don’t know, but I doubt he’s selling Girl Scout Cookies.”

With a burst of speed the Charger plowed into the Nissan, sending the tiny silver car whipping back and forth across the road, testing all of Dean’s defensive driving skills.  It was rear wheel drive, which helped with handling, but the Charger probably outweighed it by two thousand pounds.  It was all he could do to keep it on the road.  They both started swearing.

Dean sped up once the car stopped fishtailing, trying to put some distance between them. A horrible wobble started in the left rear wheel, accompanied by the unmistakable roar of a shot bearing.  The Charger tried to bump them again, but Dean whipped the car into the other lane, praying to whomever was listening that he’d get a few more moments before shit really hit the fan.

“We’re gonna lose a wheel.”

“What?” Cas said, eyes wide.

Dean’s brain scrambled to take in his surroundings.  The road was flat, but less than a mile ahead it curved sharply to the left around a copse of trees.  Off to the right was open field, the shoulder sloping gently down an embankment before leveling out.  It wasn’t much of an angle, and if he could get the car down to about forty-five, the impact would be survivable.  If they lost the wheel and wound up in the trees, their chances dropped considerably.

The Charger caught them on the third try, the blunt nose of the muscle car rubbing the right rear quarter, trying to put the car in the ditch.  If they lost the wheel in that position, the car would end up rolling down that road like a cowboy cigarette. Dean fought it, struggling to pull away, the steering wheel bucking in his hands.  The wobble worsened until the whole car shook.

They weren’t going to make it.

“You gotta jump,” Dean said, chancing a glance at Cas.  He had the oh-shit bar in a death grip, eyes wide with alarm.  He might break a bone or two on the way down, but this car was gonna eat asphalt, and even if they survived, the driver of the Charger was on a mission.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they wanted.  He didn’t know who it was or how he knew, but he must have been after the prototype.

“Dean—”  Dean unbuckled Cas.  “Are you insane?”

“Trust me!”

Just as they came into the bend, Dean hit the brakes, sending the car into a drift. He reached across Cas and opened the door, gravity pulling it open against the wind.  Time slowed.  Cas’ eyes were bright when they met his, full of fear and trust and searching for something in Dean he wasn’t sure was there.  

With a nod, Cas crossed his arms over his chest, and jumped.

The Charger struck again, sending the Nissan into a wild spin.  The wheel broke free just as the car careened off the road.  Dean tried to save it -- Sam, Cas, the prototype.  Himself.  Even keeping the damn car upright was a lost cause.  The spin turned into a roll. Everything went topsy-turvy, until he cracked his head on the roof and everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel hit the ground at the bottom of the embankment with the force of a freight train, the impact knocking the wind out of him.  The world spun as he fought to draw breath, and the dwindling stars danced in the sky like images cast from a zoetrope.  He was dizzy and disoriented and his entire body ached like… well, like he’d jumped from a moving vehicle.

A car door slammed in the distance.

Dean.

It took him too long to climb to his feet, legs unsteady and chest aching.  Broken ribs were a distinct possibility; they were bruised at the very least.  Breathing was almost impossible, each indrawn breath so painful it was immediately knocked back out.  Trying his best to ignore the pain, Castiel made his way toward the sound.  Toward Dean.  He could see taillights on the road a ways off, but the distance between the red squares and the headlamps was too long for it to be the Nissan, which meant…

Castiel picked up the pace, slick dress shoes slipping on the damp grass, eyes scanning relentlessly for any sign of the silver car.  Dean had said they were going to lose a wheel, and Castiel vaguely recalled hearing metal screeching and glass shattering as he fell, but not breaking all of his limbs had been a priority.  He couldn’t have paid attention anyway, rolling down the hill like a tumbleweed. 

He rounded the bend in the road and spotted the Nissan.  It had come to a stop on its roof, with all of its glass busted out, and a front wheel spinning lazily.  He arrived in time to see a petite brunette hurl a Molotov cocktail into the car and walk away, the sound of glass shattering sharp in the silent morning.  

Flames  _ wooshed  _ out the rear window, and panic seized Castiel. There was no way Dean had been able to get out before the crash.  He’d been on the wrong side of the car, and the sounds of the accident had followed Castiel’s exit too quickly for him to have had time. 

Dean was still in the car.

“Dean!” Castiel shouted, running to the car as fast as his legs allowed, adrenaline rushing in and pushing the pain to the back of his mind. How much gas was in the tank?  Even a small amount could prove lethal, should it explode.  Even if the blast didn’t kill him, burns and smoke inhalation were just as dangerous.  They were so far away from everything.  How long would it take for help to arrive?  The thought of Dean dy—

No. 

Skidding to his knees next to the driver’s side, glass sliced through the fabric of his trousers and into his skin, but Castiel forced his mind to clear.  Dean was still buckled in, arms lax against the compressed roof, face cut and bleeding.  All of the airbags deployed, thank God, but he was still unconscious.  

The fire was getting hotter, devouring the upholstery, flames licking at the back of Dean’s seat.  They were running out of time.

Castiel had half his torso squeezed in between Dean and the steering wheel, trying to press the release on his seatbelt when he realized the passenger side door was gone.  It must have ripped off during the crash, leaving more than enough room to extricate Dean.  He didn’t try to be careful as he made his way around the wreckage, and he definitely didn’t let himself think how stupid it was to crawl into a burning car.

He refused to let Dean die.

Dean’s entire weight was against the belt, making the latch reluctant to release. The fire was growing at approximately the same rate as his panic. Smoke from the incinerated upholstery billowed, burning his lungs, and making it difficult to see.  Just as Castiel was about to give up and attempt to search Dean’s pockets for a knife, the latch released and Dean tumbled to the ground.

Despite winning the battle against Dean’s restraints, it took some finagling to work him free of the car.  Dean’s thighs were trapped beneath the steering wheel, the curve of the seat prevented his body from turning, and Castiel worried for his neck. It took forever,  every muscle in his body protesting, each second carrying them closer and closer to being blown to bits, until finally,  _ finally _ , Dean was out.  

Clambering to his feet, Castiel hooked his arms beneath Dean’s, locked his hands across his chest, and dragged him as far away from the car as he could before collapsing in exhaustion.  Dean still hadn’t woken up, and, for the first time, it occurred to Castiel that maybe he was already dead.

“Dean,” he said, coughing.  Rising to his knees, Castiel pressed two shaky fingers to Dean’s neck.  “ _ Dean _ .”

He couldn’t find a pulse, but he couldn’t tell if it was his fingers’ fault or if there wasn’t a pulse to find.  A fresh wave of panic rising, Castiel put his ear to Dean’s chest, then cupped his hand over Dean’s mouth, hoping to feel even the slightest puff of air against his palm.

Nothing.

Dean wasn’t breathing.

Castiel started compressions, throwing all of his weight into the task.  He emptied  his mind before his imagination spiraled and the heartache that teased the frayed edges of his composure won out.  He would do this until his arms fell off.  Dean had put himself on the line for him too many times for Castiel to give up on him without a fight.

Castiel thought he might die of relief when Dean drew his first, gasping breath, trying to suck in air between vicious, hacking coughs.  Castiel helped Dean into a recovery position until it passed, resting his forehead against Dean’s back and trying to catch his own breath.  His arms were numb and he felt like he’d run an emotional obstacle course, or been stuck on some kind of never-ending carnival ride.  He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours; had jumped down an elevator shaft; been shot at; threatened with evisceration; thrown from a moving vehicle; conned an international criminal, and had watched Dean almost die right in front of him, twice. 

When the coughing finally subsided, Dean sat up, grimacing, and said, “Well, that was fun.”

Castiel wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or punch Dean in the fac.  He settled for a hug, overjoyed that Dean was alive and able to return the embrace.  The image of Dean’s still, lifeless body lying in the grass would haunt him forever.  But Dean was breathing, laughing a little even, and hugging him back.  Not much else mattered.

Then the car exploded, and reality sunk in.

“Oh my God, the prototype,” Dean said, releasing Castiel and trying to stand.  His legs were wobbly, and it took him a couple of tries.  The look of horror on Dean’s face shook Castiel to his bones.

“The woman in the yellow car took it before she set the car on fire.”

“Sonofabitch!” Dean shouted, tugging his hands through his hair.  “Even if we still had anything to give Crowley, we don’t have a way to get it there!”  Turning back to Castiel, Dean’s entire body deflated.  “We can’t even call for help.”

This was true.  Both of their comm units were in the car, as was Dean’s phone.  Castiel patted down his pockets for his own, but came up empty.  He must have lost it in the tumble.  They could look for it, but it would be a wasted effort until the sun rose, and even then there was no guarantee it was still functional.

Not that they had that kind of time, anyway.  Castiel doubted they had more than half an hour to make it to the exchange.

“All these fucking hoops we jumped through,”Dean said, defeated.

In the distance Castiel saw a pair of headlamps approaching, and the beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind.  Energized, Castiel stood and clasped Dean’s neck with a bloody hand.  He didn’t even know whose blood it was.

When Dean met his gaze, Castiel smiled.  “Hold that thought.”

Castiel clambered up to the road before Dean could argue, flagging the car down just as it approached the burning wreckage.  It was an older import, and the guy that stepped out of it was young.  Castiel doubted he was out of college yet.  He didn’t know what the guy was doing out in the middle of nowhere before dawn, but he wasn’t in a position to question the universe.

“Dude, you alright?”

Castiel didn’t let himself think about what he was about to do.  “I apologize, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Then he punched him in the face, a solid upper-cut to the jaw that had him flying backward.  He hit the ground with a thud, unconscious.  Castiel’s hand throbbed and he shook it out; he hadn’t had to hit someone like that since college.

“Jesus Christ, Cas!” Dean said, coming up behind him.  He looked both impressed and shocked.  “What the hell are you doing?”

“Saving your brother,” Castiel replied reaching inside the car and popping the trunk.  Hopefully, there would be something useful inside.

“The prototype is gone,” Dean said, his voice anguished.  “It doesn’t matter if—”

“But we are not without options,” Castiel interrupted.  There wasn’t much in the trunk beside a roadside emergency kit, a small toolbox, and a bundle of rope.  The rope would be enough.

By the time Castiel shut the trunk, Dean had figured out where the conversation was headed, and the blood drain from his face.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“It’s the only way, Dean,” Castiel said.  “We don’t have time to argue about this.”

“No!”

“You said it yourself: why fight over the golden eggs when you can just take the goose?  This will at least buy you some time.”  He tossed Dean the rope and extended his hands, wrists pressed together.  “Tie me up.”

“Did you hear anything I said to you about Crowley?” Dean shouted.  “And now you’re asking me to tie you up and  _ leave you with him _ ?”

“The prototype is gone, Dean!  My life’s work,  _ gone _ .” Castiel shouted back.  “I will not allow all this to be for nothing.  If we can still get Sam—”

“I won’t be able to live with myself knowin’ you died for my brother, and neither would he!”

Castiel went to Dean, cupped his face.  “You’ll get me back.”

“Cas—”

“ _ You’ll get me back _ .”

“You can’t know that,” Dean said, his voice unsteady.

“Yes, I can.  I do.”

Dean dropped the rope in favor of gripping Castiel’s sides, strong fingers desperate as he pulled Castiel closer.  Castiel closed his eyes when Dean rested his forehead against his, reveling in the intimacy, in how unguarded Dean was.  He’d been getting glimpses of this side of him since they first met; witnessing it unfiltered made Castiel’s heart feel too full for his chest.

Dean kissed him, slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to memorize the way Castiel’s lips felt against his own.  It was gentle and simultaneously fierce, Dean trying to pour into him all the things he couldn’t say.  Castiel had never been more present in his entire life, every cell in his body singing out for Dean in unison.  

Something clicked inside Castiel’s head, all the jumbled pieces locking into place, and he realized this,  _ Dean _ , was what he was missing.  Dean felt like home. 

Castiel kissed him back, hoping Dean felt it too.

 

@

 

Dean pushed the raggedy little Honda to its limit, topping out at eighty-five, the whole car vibrating.  It smelled of weed and burning oil, the steering wheel was tacky on his palms, and the passenger seat and floorboard were a sea of fast food wrappers.  It was disgusting.

Cas was trussed up in the backseat.

He was quiet and impossibly calm, considering what he’d volunteered for, and if he was afraid, he wasn’t showing it.  His faith in Dean was unshakable.

Dean was sick with guilt.  Cas’ excellent arguments notwithstanding, Dean was still going to trade one life for another.  He could think of nothing more selfish than what he was preparing to do; Cas’ willingness made it worse.

Even if Cas somehow made it out alive, Dean would never be able to repay this.  Never.

Based on Cas’ description, it was Ruby who ran them off the road and stole the prototype.  By the time the sun came up, Lucifer would have it in his hands, and then they’d never get it back.  

Tidwells didn’t have much in it besides a Post Office, a gas station, and a grocery store, but Dean hadn’t even crossed into the town limits before signs directing him to the marina started popping up.  By the time they got there Dean was a mess.  This was wrong on so, so many levels.

He drove until he saw headlights, immediately recognizing the black Suburban that had tried to run him over in the parking garage.  It was parked with the hatch toward the Potomac, the engine idling, in prime position for a quick getaway.  Dean parked the Honda at an angle to it for the same reason.  If something happened and they needed to get the hell out of dodge, he didn’t want to have to reverse first.  The Honda would stand even less of a chance against the Suburban than the Nissan did against the Charger.

“Cas—”

“If you ask me if I’m sure one more time, I will beat you myself.”

“Alrighty then,” Dean said.  

He left the car running, and climbed out.  In the time it took to open the back door and pull Cas to his feet, Crowley and two thugs got out of the SUV.  The driver stayed behind the wheel, which bothered Dean, but not as much as Sam’s absence did.

Crowley hadn’t changed at all.  He was immaculately dressed in a black-on-black suit with a blood-red tie. His hairline had receded a little farther, and he was sporting a beard now, but it was the same smug face and cunning gaze that watched Dean haul Cas out of the backseat by the back of his jacket.

Cas grunted in pain, stumbling against him, and a part of Dean died.  Dean frogmarched Cas into the open space between the cars.

Crowley gifted him a judgmental appraisal.  “I see you still do your shopping at surplus outlets,” he drawled.  “And I asked for a prototype, not a mangled electro-chemist.  What did you do, road-hog him?”

Dean glared.  “Had a run-in with Lucifer’s bitch, Ruby.” Dean shoved Cas forward onto his knees.  “But I brought you something better.  Why waste your time squabbling over a box of parts when the doc here can make you a dozen of them.”

“And what good will that do me, if Lucifer sells his first?  Hm?”

“Trust me,” Dean said, “Lucifer just put himself at the top of my shit-list, but I’m not doing anything else for you until I get my brother back.  Where’s Sam?”

Crowley smiled, and Dean’s skin crawled.  “I was wrong about you, Dean.  You haven’t changed at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at you,” Crowley replied, waving his hand at Dean.  “Still doing whatever’s neccessary to get what you want.  Sacrificing the good doctor for dear old Sammy.  You’re just as ruthless as you ever were.”  He leaned forward.  “Aren’t you tired of hiding it?”

Dean’s blood ran cold, every single word from Crowley’s mouth a sucker punch to the gut.  He wasn’t wrong.  Even if it was Cas’ idea, he was doing exactly what Crowley said.  

“Give me my brother, you sonofabitch.”

“You used to be more fun.”  Crowley snapped his fingers, and one of his thugs returned to the Suburban, opened the hatch and pulling Sam out.  “But I suppose this trade is acceptable.”

Sam looked awful.  The suit he’d worn the day he was taken was torn and dirty, his hair was a mess, his lip split, and he had a huge shiner on his left eye.  Sam’s hands were bound behind his back and he limped slightly as the guy walked him toward Dean.  

Rage pooled low in Dean’s gut.  Crowley was lucky he was standing out of striking distance, otherwise Dean would have given into the impulse to rip his head off.  Sam was as curious as he was relieved, Dean could tell, his gaze flicking back and forth between Dean and Cas, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.  

When Sam made it to him, Dean had to stop himself from hugging him right then and there.  He settled for taking out his pocket knife and cutting Sam’s bonds.  “Get in the car, Sammy.”

Crowley caught the eye of the other thug and jerked his head toward Cas.  “Chop, chop.  The plane leaves in two hours.”

Dean’s stomach dropped to the vicinity of his knees.  If Crowley took Cas out of the country, Dean would never see him again.  Not even with Charlie on the trail.  Not with ten Charlies.  

“Where are you taking him?” he demanded, taking an unconscious step forward.

Crowley turned and looked at Dean, really looked, and smiled that awful smile of his.  “Oh, Dean, what have you done?  Looks like I got the long end of this stick.”

Dean watched, helpless, as Cas was manhandled into the back of the Suburban, his blue eyes finding Dean’s.  He looked scared, his brilliant mind no doubt coming to a similar conclusion, calculating the odds of Dean finding him abroad.

The sound of the hatch slamming shut was like a shotgun discharging.  Dean’s ears rang with it.

“Dean, let’s go,” Sam called.

Sam was right.  There was nothing he could do now.  They were outnumbered, outgunned, and neither Dean nor Sam were in any state to fight their way out.  It would be a bloodbath, and then who would be there to track Cas down?  Bobby, Jo, and Charlie wouldn’t even know to look, and this whole fucking night would have been for nothing.

With a heart of lead, Dean backed away, unwilling to take his eyes off Crowley.  He’d sworn he’d never kill again, but he could make an exception for Crowley.  

Dean kicked the back door closed then dropped into the driver’s seat, Sam sliding awkwardly into the passenger side, brushing the trash out the door.  He was too big for the car, honestly, not to mention the floorboard was filled with garbage.  The car protested forward motion when he put it in gear—he’d really beat the shit out of it trying to make it in time— but it moved eventually.

Crowley waved and blew him a kiss as they passed, and something inside Dean broke.

 

@@

 

Sam didn’t say anything while they drove, making their way toward the highway that would take them back to I-95, but Dean sensed the questions growing inside that enormous head of his.  The chances of getting out of answering them were approximately zero.

“You look like shit,” Sam said, his gaze boring a hole into the side of Dean’s face.

It reminded him of Cas.

“So do you.”

“I tried to escape.”

“Car accident.”

“He was shot earlier, too,” said a chipper voice from the backseat.

Dean jumped, swearing loudly, with only his reflexes to thank for keeping the car on the road.  Sam responded similarly, grabbing the dash when Dean swerved.

“Goddammit, Jo!” Dean barked.  “Get. A. Fucking. Bell.”

Forcing a couple of deep breaths, Dean pulled the car onto the shoulder.  His nerves really couldn’t take much more of this shit.  He was standing in the middle of the road before he realized he’d even opened the door, his heart going a thousand miles an hour and his hands shaking.  Jo had scared the shit out of him, but she wasn’t the reason he was so upset, and he knew it.  It was Cas.  

It was always gonna be Cas.

God, what had he done?

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam said behind him.

“He’s a Goddamn moron, that’s what,” Jo said.  Dean turned to face her, just in time for her to shove him hard in the chest.  

“Ow!”

“I can’t believe you just let him go!”

Her words cut to the bone.  Jo was right to be angry, but her genuine concern for Cas surprised him.  It seemed Dean’s heart wasn’t the only one Cas had burrowed into.

“I know!” Dean said, pulling his hands through his hair.  “We lost the prototype, comms, phones.  The car.  And Cas... What were we supposed to do?”

Jo’s posture became marginally less hostile.  “Have a little faith, Winchester.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Will one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?” Sam demanded.  Bitch Face #6 was in full effect, and Dean could have cried to see it.

At least he had Sam back.  

Jo wheeled on Sam.  “And you,” she said, flailing her arms aggressively.  “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”

Sam’s eyes widened.  “I’m…sorry?”

“Damn right you are.”  Jo threw her arms around Sam’s middle so hard he stumbled back, and buried her face in his chest.  

Sam looked at Dean, asking with his eyes what had gotten into her.

Dean knew exactly what had gotten into her, and wondered if his brother felt the same way about Jo as she did him.  “It’s been a rough couple of days, man.”

Jo mumbled something into Sam’s shirt that Dean couldn’t make out, but it made Sam’s eyes widen even further.  Smiling, Sam wrapped his arms around her, too, and Dean had his answer.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, smoothing his hand over her hair.  “I’m okay.”

Jo mumbled again, and Sam huffed a laugh.

Dean’s heart ached.

Jo stepped away as suddenly as she’d latched on, her cheeks pink with uncharacteristic embarrassment, and Dean pulled Sam in for a hug of his own.

The universe centered, with his brother in his arms, but it was still off.  It would always be off, until he had Cas by his side again, safe and sound.

“Good to have you back, Sammy.”

When they separated, Sam had on his Serious Face.  “So, who was that guy, and are we really letting Crowley skip town with him?  I mean, I’m glad you saved my bacon, but—”

“His name is Castiel Milton,” Jo said, cutting him off.  “And we’re not going to do anything.”

Dean’s blood pressure spiked so hard his vision blurred.  “The hell we aren’t.”

Jo smiled like the cat that got the canary, and patted Dean’s cheek.  “Like I said: You gotta have a little faith, Winchester.”

 

@@@

 

The sound of the Honda puttering away was the worst thing Castiel had ever heard.  Dean was leaving.  This was the plan, and Dean would rip the world apart to find him, but he was no fool.  If Crowley managed to get him out of the country, the odds of Dean rescuing him dwindled considerably.  He thought of Anna, of their cozy little apartment, Balthazar.  He might never see any of it, ever again.  Would they tell Anna what happened?

He tried hard not to give into panic.  The only thing that kept the tingly, oppressive feeling that bubbled up in his chest at bay, was the pain.  Curled up on his side in the cargo hatch with an pounding head, Castiel’s bruised ribs and battered body suffered every single bump in the road.

Crowley kept up a constant stream of chatter as they drove, the driver taking them in the opposite direction than Dean had gone.  He was apparently content to talk to himself because his men never responded as he carried on and on about departure times and private jets, and the acquisition of supplies and what sort of arrangements would need to be made for Castiel.  His voice was obnoxious.   

Two hours.  That’s what Crowley said.  Two hours before Castiel was marched onto a private jet and flown to God-knows-where, never to be seen or heard from again.  But, if Castiel had learned anything tonight, it was that a lot could happen in two hours.  His whole life had changed in two hours.

The sun had risen by the time they hit the highway, the sound of the wheels on the ground changing pitch as they accelerated.  When the driver took a corner too sharply, something hard and heavy slid across the floor and into Castiel’s head.  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.  How much more abuse was his skull going to receive today?

He lifted his head to glare at the offending article, and found… his prototype.  The metal case was identical to it in every way, right down to the small abrasion on the bottom corner from when one of his interns had dropped it.

Not a replica.  The real thing. 

Castiel struggled to make sense of this.  If Dean was right and it was Ruby who took the prototype from them, what was it doing in the back of Crowley’s car?  Was Ruby working for Crowley instead?  If she was, and he knew he had the prototype, what did he want with Castiel?  Why go through the charade with Sam and Dean?  

What the hell was going on?

Castiel was working himself up to his knees to get a better look, when a startled cry issued from the front of the car.  The tires exploded, the shock pitching him forward onto the case.  Crowley swore colorfully as the driver attempted to keep the vehicle from tipping, and Castiel was tossed about the cargo area like a ragdoll.  

The car came to a stop, and metallic  _ shinks  _ chorused as guns prepared to fire. 

“You lot are irretrievably stupid,” Crowley snapped.  “Think you’re going to take on an FBI SWAT team with a couple of handguns?”

“But—”

“But nothing.  We’ve been pinched.  I’d like to live to fight another day.”

FBI?  SWAT?

The hatch and all four doors opened simultaneously, and Castiel was greeted by a rather pleased looking woman with short brown hair and an impish grin.  She holstered her gun.

“Doctor Milton, I presume?”

“Yes?”

“Special Agent Mills.  Nice to meet ya.”

  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Sitting on the rear bumper of the ambulance, wrapped in one of those horrible, scratchy shock blankets felt like a dream.  One of those really bizarre ones, where nothing made sense.  He kept waiting to wake up in the back of that SUV.  

An aggressive EMT had declared his ribs bruised, not broken, but how hard had he hit his head?

“Castiel.”

Castiel blinked, his brain slowly processing the fact that Charlie was standing in front of him, wearing an oversized, black FBI windbreaker and ballcap.  She was grinning from ear to ear, and he was hard pressed not to return it, bewildered or not.

“Charlie.”

She pressed an index finger against her lips and winked.  “That’s Agent Rosenberg, to you, Doctor.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”  She bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet a couple of times before giving into the impulse to hug him.  “When your comms went off line— _ ugh. _  Not cool, dude.”

Castiel agreed.

Bobby came around the corner of the ambulance just as Charlie stepped away.  He looked haggard and exhausted, and also wore FBI apparel.

Why were they pretending to be FBI agents?   _ How _ were they pretending to be FBI agents?

Bobby clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.  “Scared the hell outta us, son.  I’m real glad you’re alright.”

“Where’s Dean?”

“He’s with Jo,” Charlie said.  “He’s fine.  They’re all fine.”

“Listen,” Bobby said, clearing his throat.  “What you did for Sam— We can’t ever repay that.  Thank you.”

“I think we’re even,” Castiel replied, eyeballing the vehicle where Crowley was detained.  “If you hadn’t come…”

“Best not to fret about what never happened, Doc.”

“How did Crowley get the prototype?”

Bobby smiled.

“That’s what I’d like to know, _ Agent Giles, _ ” Special Agent Mills said, breaking away from a huddle with the forensic team to join them.  She crossed her arms over her chest and gave Bobby a look. They definitely knew each other.  He’d bet it was an interesting story, too.

Bobby looked like the kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  Mills had a peculiar effect on the surly man.  Charlie watched with wide eyes.

“However,” she continued, “I don’t supposed I can give you too much shit.  Nabbing Lucifer, Abbadon, and Crowley in one day?  This is one for the record books.”

“You got Abbadon?” Bobby said, deliberately not answering her question.

Mills nodded.  “Field team in Miami picked her up twenty minutes ago.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Castiel said, his train of thought hopping around like a rabbit.  There was too much data to take in, and not enough sleep. 

“What’s going on is I owe this ol’ cuss dinner,” Mills said, jerking a thumb at Bobby.  “And maybe breakfast, too.”

Bobby  _ blushed _ .  “Christ, Jody.” 

Castiel didn’t think it was possible, but Charlie’s eyes grew even wider.  If Bobby looked caught red-handed, she looked like she’d been given Christmas, her birthday, and the Fourth of July all at the same time.

Mills turned to Castiel.  “If you’ve got the all-clear, I’ll have one of my boys drive you home, Dr. Milton.”

“Do you need a statement from me?”

She waved him off.  “I’ll send someone round later this week.  We’ve got enough to put Crowley away for a looong time.  And as soon as Forensics is done processing your thingamabob, I’ll deliver it to Sandover Industrial myself.”

Castiel’s fuzzy train of thought screeched to a grinding halt.  He hadn’t thought about work, or what going back would mean.  Everyone wanted to sell his research — Bela, Abbadon, Crowley, Lucifer.  They all wanted to make a profit off of something Castiel spent his whole life creating to help everyone.  Dick Roman’s smug face taunted him; even Castiel’s employers wanted to sell his work to the highest bidder. If the Navy got their hands on it, no one else would ever have access.

“Thank you, Special Agent Mills.  I would like very much to go home.”

“Sure thing, Doc.”  With a wink, Mills wandered off, shouting for someone called Hanscum.

“She’s a saucy little minx, isn’t she?” Charlie said doing a little wiggle.

“Can it, shortstack.”  

Charlie giggled, nudging Castiel with an elbow.  “Isn’t it adorable?  And at this time of life—”

“I swear to God—” Bobby stopped, huffed, and turned to Castiel.  “We’ve got some loose ends to tie up, but we wanted to make sure you were okay.”  He offered his hand.  “Thank you, Castiel.  We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Castiel shook his hand, pride welling up in his chest.  Illegal or not, he’d helped them do something incredible over the course of the last twelve hours.  He was proud of their accomplishment, of himself; and he’d somehow managed to find an entire group of people who accepted him for exactly who he was. 

Bobby cleared his throat, readjusted his hat.  “I’ll be in the van.”

Charlie hugged him again the minute Bobby was out of sight, squeezing tight around his shoulders.  This time he was able to return the embrace.

“Will I see you again?” Castiel asked.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said, shrugging.  “Gonna be kinda weird without you.  Which doesn’t really make any sense.”

Castiel offered a sad smile.  “Well, whatever happens, I’m glad to have met you Agent Rosenberg.”

“Likewise, Mr. Petrovich.”

“And tell Dean…” What?  What did he have to say that could be conveyed in a simple message?  It was all jumbled in his head, in his heart; Castiel might never be able to unravel it, let alone condense it into a sound byte.

“I’ll tell him you said wassup.”  Charlie grinned.  “Take care of yourself.”

“Wait,” Castiel said as she began to walk away. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Name it.”

Castiel looked around to make sure no one would overhear.  “Do you still have my research data?”

Charlie nodded.  “That jump drive you gave Abbadon was just a bug I cooked up.”

“Make sure the world gets cold fusion.  For free.”

“You rebel,” Charlie said, her eyes sparkling.  “Consider it done.”

 

@

Special Agent Donna Hanscum was a cheerful, chatty woman with a pretty face and enough blonde hair for two people.  But mostly, she was chatty.  With traffic it took nearly three hours to make it from the crime scene to his apartment in Adam’s Morgan, and she only stopped talking was when they stopped for breakfast at a McDonald’s.  Castiel didn’t have an appetite, or an inclination to converse, but he did his best to be polite.

His work was in good hands, three dangerous criminals were behind bars, their operations no doubt on the brink of collapse, and they had all made it out alive.  The only thing left for him to dwell on was Dean.  

It was bittersweet.

 

Castiel wandered up to his building in a daze, stopping dead at his reflection in the glass door.  He looked like hell.  His tuxedo was destroyed — torn, covered in dirt, the knees of his trousers were shredded from when he’d knelt in the glass, and his bowtie was gone.  The dark circles under his eyes reflected his exhaustion, and he was in dire need of a shower and shave.  

There was also the blood.  Most of it was Dean’s.

The apartment was full of morning sun when Castiel finally trudged up the stairs.  The television was on, re-runs of The Rockford Files airing with the volume turned low, and Anna was asleep on the sofa, still wearing her dress.  She stirred when the door clicked shut behind him, stretching and yawning as she fixed her bleary gaze on him.

She looked out the window, then back at him, a teasing smile curling her lips and sculpted eyebrows dancing suggestively.  “I guess it ended up being more than just a couple of drinks and some glad-handing.” 

“You could say that.”

Anna squinted at him across the room.  “Did you go for a literal roll in the hay?”

“Not exactly.”

“Where would you even find hay?”

Castiel looked down at himself, and remembered  rolling down that embankment, the sound of metal twisting in the distance.

Anna got up and moved toward him, alert now, keen eyes cataloging every detail.  Not much got past her.  Her gaze narrowed.  “Is that blood?”

He tried to think of something to say to soothe his sister, but Anna was already working herself up to a proper fit, so…  “No?”  

“That is not a question you answer with another question, Cas!  Oh my God, did he roofie you and leave you to die of exposure?”

Castiel shook his head.  “Nothing like that.  He was a perfect gentleman.  Until he throat-punched the priest.”

“What?!”  Anna screeched, flailing a little.  “Who throat-punches a priest?  Alright, that’s it.  I’m am officially making myself your Head Screener of Dates.  Jesus.  You went to a fundraising gala, and you look like someone threw you out of a moving car!”

He canted his head to the side.  Her summary was impressively accurate.

“I’m going to shower.”

“What?  Cas!  You can’t lead in with ‘he throat-punched a priest’ and then just walk away!”

Castiel walked away.

It wasn’t like the guy was a real priest anyway.

 

It wasn’t until he was in bed, teetering on the edge of consciousness, that Castiel realized Bobby had never answered his question.  How the hell had Crowley gotten the prototype?

 

@

 

On Monday, Castiel left for work.  He still felt awful, but the idea of staying cooped up in his apartment all day was not appealing, even if it meant being cooped up in a lab all day instead.  

Anna tried her best not to hover, and whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, her eyebrows pinched together in an anxious frown.  He considered telling her what happened, but was in no way, shape, or form prepared for the hysterics that would likely follow.  It wouldn’t make her feel better, and there was nothing he could say that would make her understand how profoundly he had changed.

Dean was not at the cafe.  His latte-one-pump-caramel tasted bland.

When he arrived at Sandover Industrial, he was greeted by the spectacle of Meg and Gordon being forced into a DC/Metro cruiser parked outside.  He’d forgotten they existed, but was glad they would not breathe free air any time soon.  It pleased him that they had been stuck wherever Dean had hidden them on Saturday night.

Zachariah was waiting for him inside the front door, and he immediately regretted his decision to leave the house.

“I just had a fascinating conversation with the FBI,” he said, forgoing his usual, phony hello.  “Kidnapped by thieves, eh?”

“What do you want, Zachariah?” Castiel said, sighing.  

“Bartholomew and I,” he replied, stressing the former, “would like to know how the hell this happened?  And now, of all the times!  With the Navy on the hook!”

“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming.”

Zachariah rolled his eyes.  “ _ Of course _ we’re overjoyed by your safe return, but—”

“Dean cut his hand, and I went up to the lab for the first aid kit,” Castiel interrupted, already sick of Zachariah.   He made Castiel’s skin crawl, but after looking Abbadon in the eye and lying through his teeth, this exchange seemed meaningless.  The half-truth flowed off his tongue like honey.  “It’s a bit hazy after that.”

“Hazy?”

“I received a significant blow to the head, and spent several hours tied up in the back of an SUV.  I’m not sure what kind of information you’d like for me to provide.  If you’ll excuse me.”

Zachariah called after him as he walked away, but Castiel didn’t look back.

On the whole, the morning was a disaster.  He’d forgotten the new interns started today, all of them abuzz with excitement and confusion.  He couldn’t remember what he’d planned to do with them, either.  All he could think about was what happened the last time he was here, and how there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. Anywhere. In the end, he wound up pairing off interns with his colleagues before retreating to his office.

It was more oppressive than the lab, but at least it was quiet.  He couldn’t stop thinking about Dean.  Everything felt unfinished. He had so many unanswered questions that he got pen and paper out and started jotting them down, trying to piece together what had happened on his own.  It was a frustrating way to pass the morning.

He spent most of his afternoon tracking down all the hotels inside the city limits that had seventh-floor suites.  He had been in the back of Charlie’s van when they’d arrived at the hotel, and too focused on becoming a Russian criminal and getting his damned tie right to notice when they had left.  

There were four, and Castiel called each and every suite before admitting to himself that Dean was gone.

 

@

 

Special Agent Jody Mills was waiting for him at his office, bright and early Tuesday morning.  She wore a pantsuit instead of tactical fatigues, but looked just as fierce.  Getting on her bad side would be a grave mistake.

“Dr. Milton,” she said, offering him her hand.  The other held a leather-bound clipboard.  Her demeanor was no-nonsense, but her eyes twinkled when they locked with Castiel’s.  “How ya feelin’?”

“Sore,” Castiel answered, unlocking his door and holding it open for her to enter.  “Tired.”

“I’m a little surprised you went right back to work, all things considered.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”  It was the most honest thing he’d said since he’d gotten home.

“I know how you feel,” Mills said, her expression softening, “but don’t forget to take care of yourself.  What you went through was pretty traumatic.”

How much did she know?.  What had Bobby told her?  What had she figured out?  Probably more than he had, he thought bitterly.

“I don’t feel traumatized.”  He felt  _ bored _ .

Mills narrowed her eyes shrewdly, like she knew exactly what he wasn’t saying.  It unnerved him.

“I came to take your statement,” she said, changing the subject.  She opened the clipboard and, to his surprise, handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“Your statement.”

Castiel read the first few lines on the top page.  He stopped, then read them again, this time going all the way to the end.  The document was a complete statement, written in a script that was shockingly similar to his own, which absolved him of any wrongdoing, completely ignored the existence of Dean and the rest of the team, and made no mention of the prototype.  If there had been any doubt that Mills knew Bobby, it dissipated quickly.

“How much do you know about what happened that night?” Castiel asked.

Mills shrugged.  “Enough to know three of the most dangerous criminals in the world are now behind bars, thanks in large part to you, Dr. Milton.  What else is there to know?”

Castiel signed the statement and handed it back.  “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Mills said, grinning.  “I’ll be able to retire on this one.”

“Glad to help,” Castiel said, his lips curling in amusement.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, but I can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

“Do you know where they are?”

Mills didn’t have to ask who  _ they  _ were.  “If there’s one thing Bobby Singer’s good at,” she said, “it’s runnin’ off.”

“Did you at least get to buy him dinner?”

“No, but I got breakfast,” she replied, eyes sparkling mischievously. 

A knock at the door cut off Castiel’s reply; it opened immediately afterward.  Bartholomew stepped into the room, looking impatient.

He straightened his suit jacket.  “Agent—”

“Special Agent, Mister…?”

“Young.  Bartholomew Young, CEO here at Sandover Industrial.”

He did not offer to shake Mills’ hand.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Young?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, “but I believe the Bureau is in possession of our prototype.  When exactly will it be returned.  We have a meeting with a potential buyer tomorrow.”

Our prototype.  Buyer.  Dick Roman’s face came to mind, and Castiel bristled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mills said, looking confused.  She turned to Castiel.  “Do you recall anything to that effect?”

He didn’t hesitate, despite the fact his heart was racing.  This was really happening.  “No,” he said.  “The prototype was not there.  I have no idea what happened to it.”

Wherever it went, he owed Charlie a steak dinner.

 

When he got home, Anna was sitting on the sofa staring at the television with wide eyes.  She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“Are you okay?” he asked, securing the deadbolt behind him and dropping his keys on the table next to the door.

“Am I okay?” she said, her voice pitchy.  “Were you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Christ, Cas, you were kidnapped!  By some sort of… international crime lord!” she shouted, standing up and throwing her hands in the air.  “And your life’s work is gone!  Poof!”

“Oh.”  The story must have made it onto the evening news.

“I am so stupid,” she said, covering her mouth with her hands.

Castiel had no idea how she arrived at that conclusion.  “How does what happened to me make you stupid?”

“Because you came home looking like you spent the night at the frat party from hell and talking about throat-punching priests and I just let it go.”  She rushed forward to hug him and he barely contained the wince as she squeezed his bruised ribs.  “For being so smart, you’re pretty damn stupid, too.”

“I’m fine, Anna.”

She looked doubtful.  “I am still pissed off you didn’t say anything.   And you just went back to work, like nothing happened?”

“It would have upset you,” Castiel replied.  “I didn’t see the point.”

“Did it occur to you that finding out from some cheesy local news anchor that my big brother almost died while I slept on the sofa might not be the best thing?”

It didn’t.  “I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.  “I cannot believe how…  _ blah _ you are about this?  Why are you not freaking out?  You’re not in some sort of delayed shock are you?” 

Was he?  He’d never been in shock before, but he felt normal.  Still a little beat up, but in one piece.  Why was he having such a difficult time transitioning back to his life?  Becoming Ilya Petrovich had been easier, and he hadn’t had a clue what he was doing.  He had lived this life since he got his doctorate.  In a lot of ways, this was the only life he knew.  After that crazy night, he should have been thrilled to get back to it.

There was only an itchy impatience had grown steadily more insistent over the last couple of days.  He’d been restless before.  Everything was small and confining.  Suffocating.  Even his skin was too tight.

When Anna made that irritated noise in the back of her throat, it became obvious she was not going to let it go a second time.  She deserved something.

“I’m fine, really,” he asserted.  “I just…it put some things in perspective."

“Like what?”

“Like… I’ve spent my whole life in a box, Anna.  For all of my accomplishments, I haven’t lived at all.”

Anna’s expression softened.  “It’s not too late, ya know?  Take some vacation time.  Travel.  Eat weird food.  Maybe meet somebody.”

Castiel had never loved his sister as much as he did in that moment.  Of course she understood.  Smiling for the first time in days, he pulled her in for a tight embrace.  

“Maybe I will.”

 

@

 

By the time Castiel got onto the Metro Friday morning, he was ready to start pulling his hair out.  He couldn’t believe it had been a week exactly since Dean had steamrolled his way into Castiel’s bland little world.  It felt like yesterday, and a lifetime ago.  He was glad the week was ending, but dreaded two days at home with nothing to do. What did he even do with his time before? He wasn’t sure he would survive, at least not without driving both Anna and himself completely insane.

Looking for a distraction, Castiel picked up a discarded newspaper off the bench next to him.  He did not typically concern himself with current events, but he was curious to see if there was any news about Crowley, Abbadon, Lucifer, or even his prototype.  What he didn’t expect to see was Alexander Turpin’s not-so-smiling face on the bottom half of the front page with the headline: _ Heir Charged With Fraud, Embezzlement in Silicon Valley Venture _ .

Castiel’s heart pounded in his chest as he skimmed the article, the highpoint of which was the $43 million that investigators said vanished without a trace.

He thought about the women Turpin raped, women Dean and his family worked so hard to help.  It was unconventional, but they had justice now.  Dean, Bobby, Charlie, Jo, and Sam had given those women that closure, and Castiel was proud to say he knew them.  He was proud of himself too, for having helped catch Crowley, Abbadon, and Lucifer.  How many lives had they ruined?  They weren’t going to hurt anyone again.

Castiel wished he’d been able to do more.  He didn’t care that he’d almost died or that he’d never get credit for any of his work.  He’d found a cause worth fighting for, and people to fight alongside.  People he cared about.  

What else was there to life?

Castiel knew what he wanted to do, and who he wanted to do it with.

 

He was elbows deep in his suitcase when Anna came home a little after four.  She stopped in the doorway to his bedroom, dropping her school bag on the floor with a hearty clunk.

“What are you doing?” she said, eyebrows climbing high.

“Packing.”

“For what?”

“Road trip.”

“Right now?  You’re taking vacation time for the first time in twelve years  _ right now _ ?”

“Yeah.  It was your idea.”  Castiel stopped folding shirts and actually looked at his sister.  She was confused and seemed shaken.  “What’s wrong?”

“I guess you didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?” he said, becoming concerned.

“It’s all over the internet.”

“What is?”

“Your research.”

Cas smiled so hard his face hurt.  Charlie was getting steak  _ and  _ dessert.  When he found her.

“That is really not the reaction I expected.”

His excitement flagged as he watched her try to process what she was seeing.  She probably thought he’d lost his mind.  Some of that delayed shock setting in.

This wasn’t an ordinary road trip, and jumping head first into this new chapter of his life meant leaving her behind.  As children, their steady temperaments had united them against Gabriel, and, aside from the years they’d spent at different universities, they had rarely been apart.  Anna was the only constant in his life besides his work, and he was preparing to walk away from both.  She deserved to know why.

“There’s a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge,” he said.  “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

 

Anna took a deep breath, poured herself another healthy glass of wine, and drank it down in one go.  Castiel sat in the armchair, elbows resting on his knees, bracing for the outburst.  He’d told her everything, from his first conversation with Dean at the cafe to him asking Charlie to make sure the world had access to cold fusion.  She’d kept her silence while he spoke, but he’d finished and he was eager to hear her response.  

“That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, surprisingly calm, but incredulous.

“I know.  But it’s the truth.”  He tugged at his tie, but it was more reflexive than anything.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so little stress.  “I don’t think I could have made up something that fantastic if my life depended on it.”

“And now you want to go find him?  Dean?  The guy who—”

“Dean did not do anything to me that I did not agree to, Anna,” Castiel interrupted.  “He’s not the villain in this story.”

“Okay, fine, but you’re still walking away from your entire life for a guy you spent a grand total of about twelve hours with.”

“No, that’s—”  Castiel took a deep breath.  “I know it looks like that, and I won’t pretend I feel nothing for Dean, but my decision to do this is bigger than Dean.  What they do?  Helping people?  Righting wrongs?  That’s what I want to do.”

“Lots of people want to help other people.  But they do it by donating to charity, or volunteering at soup kitchens, or, I don’t know, joining the Peace Corps!  They don’t do it by becoming criminals!”

“Is that your only objection to this?  Preconceived ideas of right and wrong?”

“ _ Preconceived _ ?  Cas, they steal things!”

“Only from people who hurt others!”

“Are you listening to yourself?”

Castiel got up and fetched the newspaper from his briefcase.  Turning it over so the story about Alexander Turpin was showing, he handed it to Anna.  “This is what they do.”

He gave her a minute to read through the article.

“I don’t understand.”

“That man’s a rapist, but he has a lot of money and a good lawyer, so he’d never have seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone a jail cell.  Now he will.”

“You’re saying Dean and his friends made this happen.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, shrugging.  “But that job was why they were in D.C to begin with, before Crowley showed up and… you know the rest.”

“Fine.  So they are somewhat decent human beings.”  Dropping the newspaper, Anna stood to meet his gaze.  “Have you seen them?  It’s been a week.  Have any of them tried to make contact with you?  Has Dean?”

“No, but—”

“Did it occur to you that maybe you don’t mean nearly as much to them as they do to you?  Or that they were just plain using you?”

“Yes.”  He’d driven himself mad with the idea, replaying every moment with Dean over and over again.  Wondering how much of it was real, and how much was imagined.  He’d hardly slept a wink since Sunday.  But Dean had tried to talk him out of participating at every turn, Dean had taken a bullet for him.   _ Dean  _ had kissed  _ him  _ and Castiel held onto these memories fiercely.  

His response took some of the wind out of Anna’s sails.  “Then why—”

“I have to know, Anna.  And I know you think I’m crazy, but Dean is worth the risk.”

“Then why hasn’t he contacted you?  If you think he’s worth it, then he’s obviously given you some reason to think he cares for you too.  Where the hell is he?”

“Dean thinks very little of himself,” Castiel said sadly.  “He would never ask me to do this.  It has to be my choice.”

“You could die.”

Castiel knew this.  He’d nearly died enough times for him to have no delusions.  But he also trusted Dean with his life.  “Dean will keep me safe.”

“He practically threw you out of a moving car.”

“If I hadn’t jumped, we’d both be dead.”

“What concerns me is you were in a position that those were your only two choices, and you’re totally okay with it!”  Anna grabbed his hand and squeezed.  “You do not sound like my brother.  Where’s the guy who calculates statistical data in his head, and only buys blue ties because they go with everything, and is the most passionate believer in Murphy’s Law I’ve ever met?”

“He’s still here,” Castiel replied, squeezing back.  “He’s just not behind the wheel anymore.  I know you’re afraid, but I’m not.”

Anna closed her eyes and a solitary tear running down her cheek.  Castiel’s heart just about broke.

“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this am I?”

Castiel shook his head gently.  “No.  I’m sorry.”

“Well, in that case,” she said, clearing her throat.  “I demand pizza and ice cream and a _ Back to the Future _ marathon, and at least one phone call a week.”

Castiel grinned.  “I accept these terms.”

  
  


@@@

 

_ Six months later… _

 

Dean sneaked out the back of the shitty apartment building, trying hard to wrap his mind around what he’d seen.  He’d been expecting illegal immigrants; he’d found cocaine and a shit ton of Russian artillery.  There were enough guns in the building to start a revolution in Honduras.

“Bobby, we got a fucking problem,” he said, hanging a left down the alley so he could make it back onto the main road.  “ _ She wasn’t there? _ ” Bobby said.

“There was no one there besides a couple of coked out guards.  Whatever these guys are up to, it ain’t people smuggling.”

_ “Interesting.” _

_ “That’s one way of putting it,” _ Jo said.  

“What do we do now?” Dean said.

Bobby grunted.  “ _ Charlie, dig up everything you can on the building _ .”

“I took some pictures of the guards,” Dean said pulling his phone out and opening Charlie’s message thread.  “Maybe you can run them through facial recognition?”

“ _ Look at you, thinking on your feet.” _

_ “Dean, pick up Sam and go talk to the client again, see if there’s something they forgot to tell us.  Jo, meet me at the docks in twenty. _ ”

“Guys, be careful,” Dean said.  The Impala came into sight, parked in the rear of a lot belonging to a dying row of offices.  H&R Block and a Check-Into-Cash were the only businesses still open.  “Something’s not stirring the Kool-Aid here.”

_ “Copy that _ ,” Bobby said.  “ _ Keep in touch _ .”

Just as Dean reached for the door handle, something hard and heavy crashed into the back of his head. Pain radiated throughout his skull, his teeth sliced into his tongue with the impact, and everything went black.

 

Dean woke up, freezing cold, soaking wet, and cuffed to a stainless steel table.  He coughed and sputtered, choking on water, trying to take in his surroundings while surreptitiously testing his bonds.  No joy.

It looked like he was in a… meatpacking plant.  The room was about the size of a basketball court, and it was filled with row upon row of halved pigs suspended from the the ceiling by hooks the size of Dean’s hand, shiny, industrial-style sinks, and wickedly sharp knives.  One of the cleavers magnetized to the wall closest to Dean’s head was the size of Charlie’s laptop.

His ear bud was gone.

Awesome.

Standing at the end of the table holding an empty five-gallon pail was an Asian man.  Imperious and looking like he’d stepped out of a photoshoot in a sleek grey pinstripe suit, he surveyed Dean with keen eyes.  

“You are lucky I am a curious man,” he said.  His eyes never leaving Dean, he walked to the nearest sink and began filling the bucket again.  “Interlopers are typically shot on sight.”

Japanese, if Dean’s ear for accents was still on point.  Definitely.

Two more Japanese men entered from stage left, one of them wearing a black G-man suit.  The second wore jeans and a t-shirt, and was sweating despite the chill.  He was probably high, and he’d probably spotted Dean at the apartment building.  Dean was ashamed that a skinny cokehead had gotten the drop on him.  

“Secure his head,” Grey Suit said.  

Cokeboy twitched, but rushed to obey, produced a wide canvas strap. He hooked it on one side of the table, stretched it squarely across Dean’s forehead, and secured to the other side of the table with a winch.  When he was done, Dean couldn’t even turn his head to look at Grey Suit when he started speaking again.

How the fuck was he going to get out of this one?

The water cut off, filling the room with a strange, anticipatory silence.

“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Dean said.  “I was lookin’ for this massage parlor, know what I mean?  My buddy must’a given me the wrong address.”

Without warning, the bucket appeared above him, all five gallons of it pouring out in an endless stream.  Dean did his best to keep from breathing it in, but it lasted forever.  When it finally stopped, all he could do was cough and retch.

He heard water fill the bucket again.

Grey Suit stepped into his line of sight, gazing down on him like some indifferent god.  He had discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, revealing a tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

_ 8-9-3. _

Sonofabitch.  This guy was Yakuza.  How had they missed this?

For the first time since he set foot in Kuwait at nineteen, Dean feared he might not make it out alive.

Grey Suit held up a mangled wad of plastic and wires that Dean immediately recognized as his earbud.  “You are no cop,” he said.  “LAPD does not have the resources to acquire technology this advanced.  FBI?  DEA?  ATF?”

Dean chuckled, amused that anyone would think he worked for a government agency, and not willing to give the guy the benefit of knowing he was afraid.  “Eat me.”

Grey Suit frowned.  He snapped his fingers and the water cut off.  

Dean was prepared for it this time.  He drew a deep breath right before the water hit, but it only lasted him about halfway through.  He wasted most of it reflexively blowing water out of his nose.

When he finished coughing his lungs out again, Grey Suit repeated his question: “Who do you work for?”

“He vorks for me.”

Grey Suit wheeled around at the unexpected reply.

Dean’s heart stopped in his chest.  Even after all this time, he’d recognize that voice anywhere.  But it couldn’t be.  His brain must have been trying to conjure something comforting.

“Who are you?”

“I am called Ilya Petrovich.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

And Dean couldn’t see anything but the ceiling and Grey Suit’s back.

“Should that mean something to me?” Grey Suit replied.  He turned his head, Dean assumed to look at G-Man.  “Shoot him.”

“If you kill me, I cannot move cocaine for you.”

Grey Suit paused, no doubt sizing Cas up.  “I should kill you for even knowing about that.”

“Release my man, Mr. Takenaka, and maybe ve talk business.”

Dean imagined that sly smile curling Cas’ lips. 

“How—?”

The sound of approaching sirens wailed in the distance.

The room was suddenly a flurry of motion, the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh and the hollow clang of steel filling the air.  Dean struggled against his bonds, to at least free his head so he could see.  Cas was outnumbered three to one and he was tied to a fucking table.

And the cops were coming.  As grateful as Dean would be for the backup, he was still wanted in nine countries.  

The scuffle ended too quickly for Dean to be happy about it.

“Cas!”

“Hold on.”

Hold on.  _  Hold on _ .

“Yeah, sure.  I’ll just wait right here.”

Cas snorted.

This was actually happening. 

Cas stood over him, releasing the tension on the strap and working his way around the table, unlocking the cuffs on Dean’s ankles and wrists.  As soon as he was done, Cas dragged him up off the table and into a crushing hug, their chests colliding with an  _ oof _ .

It was the best kind of breathless.

“You can hug me back.”

He grinned, squeezing Cas tight.  He’d swear on a stack of Bibles he heard an audible click.  Everything wrong in his corner of the universe snapped into place.

“What are you doing here?” Dean said, pulling back and sliding off the table.  He couldn’t take his eyes off Cas.  Same blue eyes, same five o’clock shadow, same wild hair.  He’d lost the suit and overcoat though, trading them in for faded jeans, a white oxford with a black tie, and a black leather jacket with the collar popped.

“I’ll explain later,” Cas said, doing that thing where he smiled with his eyes, all bright and crinkly. 

Dean had forgotten he did that.  How was that possible?

Cas took his hand.  “Let’s go.”

 

They ran for at least half a mile, Cas leading the way through an intricate maze of side streets and back alleys, until they came up on an old F-150 with a skinny Asian kid pacing impatiently next to it.  He didn’t look a day over nineteen, and was in dire need of a haircut.

The Impala was parked on the other side.

“Kevin,” Cas said.  He wasn’t even winded.  “I told you to leave without me.”

Kevin scowled.  “And I chose to ignore you.”

Cas shook his head fondly, and moved on.  “Are the Russians in play?”

“Please.  Did you tee-up Takenaka?”

“What the hell is going on?” Dean barked.  “Who are you, and which of you drove my car?”

“I thought you’d be smarter.”

“Hey—”

“Dean, this is Kevin.  He’s a friend.  And I drove the car.  Can we go now?”

Kevin rolled his eyes and climbed into the truck.  “If you’re more than an hour behind me, my mom’s gonna send out the National Guard.”

“We’re right behind you.”

We.  Still throwing around those inclusive pronouns, too.

Cas tossed Dean his keys.  He must have dropped them when that druggie cracked him on the back of his head.  But how did Cas even know?  

“Let’s go,” Cas said getting in the car.  “Kevin’s mother is a terrifying woman.  It would behoove us not to irritate her.”

Dean didn’t really have a reason not to, so he got in the car.  By the time he fired her up, Cas had his phone out.

“What’s Charlie’s number?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s in danger — you are  _ all  _ in danger.  The Yakuza made you two days ago, they just weren’t sure what to do with you until they caught you snooping around their store house.”

Dean rattled off Charlie’s number without hesitation.  “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Get on Highway 1; head north,” he said.  Then, into the phone, “Charlie.”

Dean heard Charlie shriek from the other side of the car.

Cas winced, but he was smiling.  It was still just as blinding.  “I’ve missed you too.  Listen.  I’m with Dean.”  

There was more shouting, and Dean was glad he didn’t have an earbud in.  He’d be deaf.

“He’s fine, but you, Jo, Sam, and Bobby need to get out of town now.  I’m going to send you an address; we’ll meet you there.”  He paused.  “I need you to trust me, Charlie.  I’ll explain everything later.  You need to hurry.”

Cas hung up the phone and sent a couple of texts before slipping it back in his pocket.

“How ‘bout you explain it to me now.”

“Kevin and I have been working this job for weeks.  And you’re lucky, too, because if we hadn’t been watching that house, you would be dead now.  Takenaka has a reputation for feeding his victims to his dogs, you know.  There wouldn’t even have been a body to bury.”

Dean’s head spun.  “You’re working a job?”

“Yes.” 

“ _ You’re working a job _ ?”

“How hard did that guy hit you?”

Dean’s blood pressure spiked.  Putting his turn signal on, he pulled the car onto the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Cas said.  “We need to get out of town.”

Dean got out, making sure to slam the door extra hard behind him.

Cas was right behind him.  “Dean?”

“After everything I did to keep you safe, you’re out here fucking around with Japanese mobsters?  And the Russians?  Are you out of your damn mind?”

“None of that sounded like a thank you.”

“What are you even doing out here, man?” Dean said, choosing to ignore the jab.  “I almost ruined your life, and now you’re—”

“Ruined my life?” Cas said.  “Dean, if anything, you ruined me  _ for  _ my life.  I barely lasted a week after you left.”

That was six months ago.  Dean felt sick to his stomach thinking about all the stupid shit Cas could have gotten up to during that time.  “So what, you’re just cruising around Los Angeles in an old Ford with your little sidekick, looking for trouble?”

“I was looking for you!” Cas said, his voice rising.  “I haven’t stopped looking for you.”

Dean froze, disbelief warring with that tiny, flickering flame of hope.  It was tenacious, that flame; Dean had been trying to douse it since they left D.C., but it was pointless.  Standing there, looking at Cas on the side of the highway, it flared so hot in his chest he struggled to catch his breath.

Cas came around the car and stopped directly in front of Dean.  He was close enough to touch, and it made Dean’s fingers itch.  He tugged on his tie — which Dean had not forgotten about.  It was still adorable.

“I need you to tell me that I didn’t imagine it, this…” he waved his hand back and forth between them while he searched for the right word.  “This bond we have.  Had.”

In the blink of an eye, that confident guy who’d singlehandedly kicked three thugs’ asses to save Dean disappeared, and the nerdy doctor Dean used to tease with smiles was back.  Somehow Cas had learned how to be both, which was as incredible as the rest of him.  Dean wouldn’t ever be able to do that, to be the guy who made sure everyone got home safe  _ and  _ be himself.  He’d been squashing that part of him down for so long, he wasn’t even sure it was still alive.

“You’re doing this for me?” Dean said, cold guilt welling up in his chest.  “You left everything behind, your work, your family, a normal life?  For me?”

“No.  I did this for me.  That life, it wasn’t living, Dean; it was existing.  You don’t get to blame yourself for this.  Unless you want to take credit for showing me what was missing.”

“Then why waste time tracking me down?” he said.  “You seem to be doin’ just fine on your own.”

“It’s better with you by my side,” Cas replied, his voice soft.  

Their gazes locked, nailing Dean to the spot.  Those blue eyes bored into him like they were reading something written on his soul.  It was like being naked in front of a crowded room, exposed and vulnerable.  But it felt like home, too.  Like he could be those things without shame or ridicule.

It felt safe.

“You’re not imagining it,” Dean said, his voice tight.  “Present tense.”

Cas took a step closer, putting them toe-to-toe and near enough that all Dean had to do was tilt his head just so and—  Dean squeezed his eyes shut, which didn’t help because all he saw on the back of his eyelids was Cas’ face the last time they were this close, and how soft his lips had been against Dean’s, and how it had felt so much like goodbye that he still didn’t like thinking about it.

He hadn’t deserved that moment then, and he wasn’t sure if he deserved it now, but letting Cas go the last time had been unbearable.  He didn’t have it in him to do it again.  If it made him a selfish bastard, he’d just have to live with that.

“Dean,” Cas pleaded, “look at me.”

Dean opened his eyes and Cas kissed him, lips as warm and dry, stubble scraping across Dean’s chin, sending chills down his spine.  Dean’s fingers scrabbled at Cas’ hips, dragging him in until they were pressed flush together.  Cas gasped when their hips collided, lips parting, and Dean tentatively slipped his tongue inside.  That was all the encouragement Cas needed, and Dean was happy to just hold on and let him take.

Everything else became hazy and peripheral: the traffic racing past behind them, the stifling evening sun, the way Dean’s blood rushed like fire through his veins.  The only thing that mattered was Cas, and how Dean had finally,  _ finally  _ found home.

The sound of a horn blaring, long and loud as it passed, followed immediately by the screech of tires snapped them out of it, both of them turning to follow the sound.  Charlie’s black panel van skidded to a stop a couple hundred feet up the road, and she was out the door and running full tilt toward them before it even stopped moving.  Jo climbed out of the driver’s seat, and Sam and Bobby piled out the back, all of them grinning like fools. Dean couldn’t find it in him to feel embarrassed.  

Charlie tackled Cas; if he hadn’t caught her when she leapt, they would have been a mess on the asphalt.  Charlie was yammering on about a mile a minute by the time her feet hit solid ground again, and Cas smiled and laughed, his warm chuckle wrapping itself around Dean like a blanket.

Sam was next, big goofy smile in place as he shook Cas’ hand, gave in, and pulled him in for a hug, too.  “It’s good to finally meet you,” he said.  “You know, properly.”

“Likewise,” Cas replied.

“I just… Thank you.  For everything.  I’m in your debt.”

Cas slipped his hand in Dean’s, squeezing gently.  “No, you’re not.”

Jo punched him in the shoulder, which was about as affectionate as she got, unless you were Sam.  “What’s up, Doc?”

“Jo.”

Jo smiled.  “Took you long enough.”

“You’re hard people to find.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Bobby said, clapping a hand on Cas’ shoulder.  “But I sure am glad to see you, son.”

Everyone started speaking at once, bickering and talking over each other on the side of the road like normal families did at the dinner table.  Cas fit so seamlessly; it was like he’d always been there.

Was possible to die of happiness?

“Wait, wait!” Cas said raising his voice over the din.  “Before we do anything, will one of you please tell me how Crowley got the prototype?”

Charlie dissolved into laughter, but it was Jo who spoke up.

“That was me.  I didn’t disable Bela’s prototype, I swapped it with the second replica.  You never had the original in your possession.”  

“You’re kidding.”  Cas looked at Dean.  “Did you know?”

“Not until after.  I thought Ruby took it, same as you.”

“But how did it get into the back of the SUV with me?  Crowley didn’t even know he had it.”

“I took a boat down the river and waited for the opportune moment.”  She shrugged, like it was no big deal.  “There was only a couple of minutes between them taking Sam out and putting you in, and I got lucky they left the hatch open.”

Cas frowned.  “That was the only thing I hadn’t considered.”

“Well, we can’t all be geniuses,” Bobby said.

“So what’s up with the top secret evacuation?” Charlie said.

“We were in the middle of a job,” Jo said, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Well,” Cas said, tugging at his tie, “you know those guns and drugs you found at the Yakuza cache?”

“Yakuza?” Sam said.  “How did we miss that?”

“I kind of stole them, and made it look like the Russians did it?  And Kevin set Nikolai Vasiliev’s club on fire, and made it look like the Yakuza did it for moving in on their prostitution game.”

“Sweet baby Moses in a basket,” Bobby said, whistling.

“And then I called the cops.”

Dumbstruck, everyone stared at Cas.

“What exactly have you been up to, Doc?”

Cas smiled.  He couldn’t seem to stop.  “That’s a long story.  One we don’t have time for right now.  We should really put a few more miles between us and this city.”

Charlie rolled her eyes.  “Fine, but I’m making popcorn, and you  _ are not _ leaving anything out.”

The others piled back in the van and headed out, but Dean didn’t want to let go of Cas’ hand. 

“We should go,” Cas said, pulling him toward the Impala.

“Stay.”

“What do you mean?”

“With us.”  Dean met Cas’ gaze again, curious and intense.  “With me.”

Cas tugged him close and kissed him hard, his free hand gripping the back of Dean’s neck.  Dean would stand on the side of the highway forever if it meant he got to keep kissing Cas like that, but oxygen.  Stupid breathing.

They were both grinning like idiots when they separated.

Cas’ eyes sparkled and he stole another quick kiss.  “Like you could get rid of me.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
